


at the gates

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Barebacking, Character Death, Drug Use, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Soulbond Trope, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I feel I already know you,” he says, laughing.</p><p>Harry looks at him, surprised. Nick feels it too?</p><p>(gryles, reincarnated)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> UMM SO this is a soulbond fic that has been in the works for over a year now and yet is still so weird and incomplete and choppy and very overdramatic. it feels good to have it (sort of) done, though. thanks very much to rhi, kari, and laura for reading it at various times. 
> 
> please note: the character named ben is NOT ben winston. ben winston doesn't exist in this story!  
> also please note that any historical facts mentioned or alluded to are probably bullshit so please don't expect accuracy 
> 
> this is loosely based on an incredible merlin fic called ["accidental memory in the case of death"](http://boxofmagic.talkoncorners.net/viewstory.php?sid=30&warning=5)
> 
> title is from lana del rey's born to die:  
> but i'm hoping at the gates/they'll tell me that you're mine 
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com) if ya want but be warned i don't really know what this fic is about either

**SEPTEMBER, 2011**

Harry likes these kinds of things. Fancy parties with posh people. Being coddled by producers and any person clued-in enough to know who they are, which isn’t  _that_  many, but it seems to be more each day. He likes the free-flowing champagne and the smell of expensive cologne and the way Niall always uses the wrong fork for his salad. He likes having his hair ruffled and his cheeks pinched- makes him feel like a child at his mum and dad’s party.

Except the only people who pinch his cheeks at home are distant weird-smelling aunts and cousins, and here it’s women with long nails and pretty faces and names that Harry knows off the telly.

This dinner’s for GQ, so there’s fewer women, more men, which Harry doesn’t mind. Men don’t give him as much attention, usually, but they tease him sometimes, and he likes that. He likes watching people try to navigate how they’re supposed to feel about that fluffy pop act off X Factor when Harry’s right there, in their face, in the flesh.

He sits at a table with the other boys and James Corden and a Radio One DJ Harry’s seen on telly but can’t quite remember the name of. He has big hands and an easy shameless smile and Harry watches him chat for a while, before the man turns to him.

“Hiya,” he says, and for the briefest moment Harry’s speechless. He just - can’t speak. It’s not a - a crush sort of thing, because he’s quite happily into women, mostly, and anyway Harry’s learned how to control himself a bit by now. It’s just that his throat dries up a little bit and his arms go goosepimply under his expensive jacket. It’s a weird physical reaction, like a shiver right down the center of him.

The man laughs. “You alright there, love? Don’t tell me you’re drunk already. I hear you’re but seventeen, very tender age, can’t be getting pissed at posh dinners. At least not before the first course.”

Harry swallows hard, and Zayn punches his leg under the table, shoots him a pointed look.

“Hi,” Harry says dumbly. “I’m, uh-”

“Harry Styles,” the man supplies smoothly. “Obviously. Not living under a rock, am I. Very nice to meet you.”

“And, you’re - you’re, um-”

“Nick,” Liam supplies, giving Harry a weird look. “Grimshaw. He said it about thirty seconds ago, Harry.”

“I know. I - nice to meet you.”

There’s a grin lurking at the corners of Nick’s mouth.

“I feel I already know you,” he says, laughing.

Harry looks at him, surprised. Nick feels it too?

“You do?”

“We’re both Northern,” Nick says. “From Oldham, meself. And you’re-”

“Holmes Chapel.”

“You are Holmes Chapel. Yes.” Nick’s still grinning. Harry can’t stop staring at him. He feels clumsy and stupid from it. “Now I was just telling your other muppets that you’ve got to be careful, at parties like this, lots of cameras, lots of press. No binge-drinking or hitting on the waitresses, you’re a wholesome bunch, I hear.”

“Wholesome,” Niall snorts. “Harry Styles. Wholesome.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, punching his arm. Zayn laughs into his glass of water.

Nick just grins wider. “Well, maybe not so wholesome,” he says, his voice winking and sharp. “I mean, I am good friends with one Caroline Flack.”

Harry goes a brilliant red, as the rest of them laugh. Liam reaches out to give Nick a fist-bump.

“Nice, Grimmy.”

Nick’s smile gets brighter without his face moving an inch. How does he do that?  

“You’re friends with Caroline?”

“Oh yeah,” Nick says. “Don’t worry, popstar. I’ve heard only good things.”

He looks away as someone touches his shoulder from behind, and Harry drags his eyes away, fumbles for his champagne glass and takes a gulp.

—

Nick kisses his cheek at the end of the night. Not just Harry’s, of course - all of their cheeks, flitting around the circle and ruffling Liam’s hair, getting in a mock fistfight with Niall, laughing fondly like they’re all old friends.

And then he reaches Harry, dips down to place a kiss on his cheek. Harry turns his face a bit, involuntarily, and Nick’s mouth lands on the side of his. It sends a shudder all the way to Harry’s toes.

Nick has a birthmark on his left hip, a brown blotchy spot. Harry thinks that, and then he thinks,  _what_?, and then -  _oh god, he just sort of kissed me_.

Nick pulls back, his cheeks red.

He looks at Harry for a moment. There are people shouting for Harry and the others, to get into the car, to move along, take some photos with fans, but Harry doesn’t move.

Nick’s brows furrow, confusedly.

“Nice to meet you,” Harry says.

“Yeah,” Nick says, absently. His gaze slides down to Harry’s mouth and then snaps back to his eyes.

“Can I, um. Can I have your number? Or- or you can have mine, what- whatever-” Harry’s stammering painfully, which hasn’t happened in  _years_.

“My number? Are you taking the mick?”

“I mean, you’re Northern. And I’m new in town.”

“New in town,” Nick repeats, eyes warming up, crinkling amusedly.

Harry knows his face is bright red. He pushes through. “Yeah. Think it’d be - you know. Good. I mean with all that advice and stuff. You were saying earlier. Being polite, no binge-drinking, no strippers, all that.”

Nick hands Harry his phone as Harry trails off, and Harry looks down at it, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He hands it back once his number’s put in, and then shakes Nick’s hand. Nick laughs at him.

“You’re fucking strange,” he murmurs, so only Harry can hear it, and for some reason it doesn’t sound like he just means for shaking hands.

Harry squeezes Nick’s warm palm and lets go. His stomach feels weird again.

“See you.”

“See you,” Nick breathes dazedly back, and then there’s a security guard at Harry’s back and he’s being ushered into a car, cameras flashing, and he feels warm and dizzy and a bit drunk, though he’d only had two glasses of champagne.

Louis’ in the backseat with him, and he snaps a finger in front of Harry’s face. “Mate.”

“Wha?”

“Keep your fucking tongue in your mouth next time, Haz,” Louis says, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “He’s way too old for you.”

“Heard that before,” Harry manages to say, and Louis cackles and shoves him over.

**SEPTEMBER, 1968**

“And as my faithful TA, we have fourth-year Ph.D student Benjamin Roberts, who took this class when he was a sophomore, just like all of you. Ben, a few words?”

Professor Tannen smiles at Ben, adjusting his glasses, and Ben waves from his chair at the front of the classroom, praying his voice doesn’t crack.

“Hiya, kids,” he says, nodding. “I’m Ben, I’m from a godforsaken corner of Iowa, but don’t hold it against me. Fourth year grad student, studying American History and Culture. My office hours are Tuesdays and Thursdays from 1 to 3 in Rotenburg Hall, feel free to stop by for a chat.”

He’s idly scanning through the crowd when he catches a pair of arresting green eyes, tracks back for a second.

The boy sitting in the third row is smiling at him, small and secret, like Ben knows him or something.

It’s weird.

What’s weirder is that Ben can’t stop looking at him. His eyes keep flicking back to the kid’s, and every time the kid smiles a little wider.

“Anyway,” Ben says, shaking it off. “Um. I’ll stop taking up class time. Come say hi, I don’t bite. Generally.”

“Thank you, Mr. Roberts,” Professor Tannen says, giving him a bemused look. Ben smiles back.  

He glances back at the boy, and something goes queer and wobbly in his stomach. The boy grins full-out, dimples popping out in both cheeks. He ducks his head, shakes his hair in front of his eyes, and Ben has to shift in his seat, determinedly pretend to be writing something in his notebook.

When class is dismissed, a swarm of overachievers push their way down the stairs toward Ben and Professor Tannen. Ben knows he’s got to be nice, friendly, open for questions, but for a minute he ignores the horde and finds that boy in the crowd again. He’s shrugging a backpack over one broad shoulder and chewing his pink bottom lip. He catches Ben’s eye, and that same smile curves the corners of his mouth. Ben looks down, heart throbbing in his chest. 

Ben promised himself- he  _promised_  himself he wouldn’t do this. It’s just that he’s such a sucker for a pretty face. It’ll be his downfall.

 **OCTOBER, 2011**  

Harry bellies up to the posh hotel bar, blinking hopefully at the bartender. “Hi.”

“How old are you?” the woman says.

“Nineteen.”

She laughs. “Try again.”

“Eighteen?”

“Why do I doubt that?”

Harry tries his most charming smile. “No idea.”

She sighs, long-sufferingly. “What would you like, sweet face?”

“Sweet face,” a voice says delightedly, to Harry’s right, and he looks up to see Nick Grimshaw, leaning against the bar and grinning. “Oi, Melissa, did I really just hear you call a boybander _sweet face_?”

“Shut your mouth, Grimmy!”

“What’ll you have, Harry Styles? I’ll get it.”

“Oh, I- um.” Harry didn’t really think it would work. “Whiskey?”

“You sound unsure.”

“It’s what me stepdad drinks, but, uh, I don’t really like it that much, I just-”

“Two vodka tonics, please,” Nick says smoothly.

“You got it, Grims.”

She turns away, and Nick tuts in his throat, shaking his head.

“Who let you out by yourself?” he asks, resting one long-fingered hand on the bartop. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Fuck off,” Harry says, and Nick giggles.

“Ooh, kitten’s got claws.”

“Shut up.”

Nick just laughs, as the drinks arrive. Nick pays with a card, tips lavishly - Harry peering at the check - and gives the receipt back along with an air-kiss. Melissa blows one back.

“Go on, then,” Nick says, nodding at Harry’s drink.

“I’ve been pissed before, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have. Weren’t you the wild one on X Factor? Always running around with your willy out, making girls weak in the knees.”

Harry takes a gulp of his drink to soothe the flush he can feel crawling up his neck.

“You’re so easy for teasing,” Nick says, tilting his head. “I love it. Here, popstar, come sit with us. My friends’ll not believe I’ve bagged Harry Styles for my very own.”

Harry blushes some more, and follows Nick away from the bar.

Nick’s friends are sat at a table in the corner, and Harry scans their faces for a minute before he lets out a sigh of relief. No Caroline. Not that he doesn’t like her, it’s just - Harry does better with her when they’re alone. And having sex. He’s _great_ at that bit.

“Harry, this is Pixie, Aimee, Henry, and Gillian aka Geeellllz,” Nick says, as Harry lamely attempts to shake hands and then gives up, sinks into a chair. “Everyone, this is Harry Styles.”

“The one you won’t stop talking about?” one girl says - dark hair, dark eyes, Harry’s pretty sure Nick called her Pixie.

Nick lets out an awkward laugh, and Harry tries not to grin. He’s never seen Nick be awkward before.

“Shut it, Pepo.”

“Run away while you still can, Harry,” one of the blokes drawls - small glasses, wry eyes, a perfectly-pressed suit. “Don’t let Grim sink his claws into you and suck your life force.”

“Projecting, are we, Hens?” Nick says tartly, scraping his chair in closer to the table and reaching for a glass of champagne. “I mean, who’s going to turn 30 first?”

“You’re 30?” Harry asks, and everyone bursts into laughter. Nick looks offended.

“God no! Do I look thirty?”

“Oh god, how old did he say he was, though, Harry,” a girl with pink hair chokes out. “Nick, I keep telling you, mid-twenties is twenty to twenty-five, not-”

“That’s bullshit!” Nick protests. “Mid twenties is twenty-five plus the surrounding two and a half years on either side, so technically, as a twenty-seven year old and three months, I still fit the description.”

“Use that business degree, Nicholas. You _do_ that math.”

Nick huffs a sigh, and hands Harry his champagne. Harry looks at it, bewildered, and takes a sip. It fizzes pleasantly down his throat.

“So, Styles,” Pixie says, leaning forward, eyebrows raising. “We’re all dying to know. Which one’s the gay one out of you lot?”

Harry chokes on his next swallow of champagne, and has to hack into a napkin for a minute or two. Nick puts a hand on his back.

“Don’t bully him, Pix, he’s only eleven.”

“Gag reflex is strong, guess we know it’s not you,” Henry says, blinking innocently, and Harry goes a bright red to go along with his watering eyes and dripping nose.

“Henry!” Nick chides.

Henry nearly falls off his chair laughing. Harry blows his nose into the napkin and crumples it up. Takes another gulp of champagne, steeling himself.

“Don’t listen to them, Harry,” Nick says protectively. “Pepo’s a _mega_ 1D fan, surprised she’s not crying right now.”

“Oh fuck off, Grimshaw.”

Harry sniffles again, nose still runny. “Do an autograph for you if you like.”

Nick and the pink-haired one burst out laughing, and Pixie rolls her eyes.

“Think I’ll pass, thanks.”

She’s smiling, though, so Harry smiles back, and drains the champagne.

—

Two hours later the ballroom’s nearly empty and Harry’s very, very drunk. It’s just - champagne. So much champagne, and two more vodka tonics, and-

“Oh god,” Nick says, as he comes back from the toilet. His shiny leather shoes stop right in front of Harry’s face where he’s bent over on a chair with his head between his knees. He hasn’t vommed or owt, he’s just - resting. His head’s spinny. “What did I say about binge-drinking?”

“You- binged- binged drank too,” Harry mumbles accusingly.

“And I just did a line in the toilet, but I’m an adult and I can handle myself. Ohh, love, you are well ready for bed, aren’t you.”

“We all know where that goes,” Henry puts in, as he stops back at the table to grab his wallet, rubbing his nose. Harry waves him off. Too drunk to - to say something clever back.

“Shut up, Henry,” Nick says tiredly. A hand rests on Harry’s back, warm and light. “Shall we put you in a cab, love?”

Harry nods, pitifully, and Nick huffs a laugh, rubs Harry’s spine. “Up you get, then.”

He ends up in the back of a taxi next to the pink-haired girl, whose name is Aimee, Harry has now learned. Nick’s on her other side, and they’re murmuring back and forth about someone named John or Jonny or something. Harry falls asleep a few times, wakes up with a hiccup when they go over a bump.

“Night, darling,” he hears Nick call, and the car door opens, a rush of cold air coming in and making Harry shiver.

“Close th’door,” he mutters, and the car starts up again. It’s just Nick in the backseat, now. Harry’s really pissed. He stares over at Nick’s knee and his thigh.

“Grimmy?” he asks.

“Yeah, Harry?”

“I don’t - I don’t wanna go home. S’all lonely. And empty. And I might choke on my own sick.”

Nick huffs a laugh. “Where should I take you, then? To one of your little muppets?”

Harry lifts his head. Nick’s watching him, eyes warm.

“To yours,” Harry says, very deliberately. “Take me back to yours.”

“You’re very drunk,” Nick whispers.

Harry’s voice drops to mirror him. “I know. Shhh. Don’t- tell.”

“Have you got anything early tomorrow I’ll need to wake you for?”

“No. Got nothing tomorrow. Well. Studio time in th’afternoon.”

“Ohh, studio time. Fancy.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’ll wake you up.”

“Thanks.”

“Why are we whispering?” Nick whispers.

“I dunno,” Harry whispers back, and Nick laughs, and helps Harry up the stairs to his flat, and doesn’t even get angry when Harry accidentally pukes on the counter instead of in the sink. Harry falls asleep on Nick’s squashy sofa, stomach roiling, a bin by his face, and he swears he feels Nick stroke a bit of hair off Harry’s forehead before he murmurs a good-night.

 

**OCTOBER, 1968**

That should be the last of it - lingering eye contact during class and no actual words exchanged. Ben could handle that. Simple. 

But the boy shows up at Ben’s office hours a few weeks into the course, with ten minutes to spare and Ben already packing up his bag. Nothing’s ever fucking simple, is it.

“Yeah, come in,” Ben calls wearily, when there’s a knock at the door, and he feels an electric jolt when the kid pokes his head in.

“Mr. Roberts?”

“Ben, please,” Ben says, hurriedly adjusting his hair.

“Hey,” he says, leaning against the door, smiling like he’s never once been told no in his life. “I had a question about the first paper.”

Ben nods him inside, and the boy slides into a chair. He doesn’t pull out a notebook or a pen or anything. Just peers at Ben with those clear green eyes. Ben looks down at the battered textbook open in his lap, tries not to flush.

“Well?” Ben asks. “You said you had a question. Shoot.”

“Do you, um,” he says haltingly. “What, uh, time period can we write about? Because I was thinking about doing a comparison thing, with the French Revolution and the-”

“This is an American history course.”

“I know, but, like, it’s a comparison-”

“The prompt’s pretty straightforward, Mr.-”

“Peters,” the boy says. “Teddy Peters.”

Ben tucks that carefully away, ignoring the excited shiver in his belly at putting a name to that face. “Ah. Mr. Peters. The prompt’s pretty direct. An event within _American_ history-”

“Alright,” Teddy says, smoothing his hair away from his face. It falls back over his eyes as soon as he lets go. “I get it.”

“Did you have any other, uh. Questions?”

“Yeah,” Teddy says, swallowing, looking up at him. He looks like someone Ben knows - from home, maybe, a familiar cut to his jaw that gives Ben a tingle of deja vu every time he sees it. Though Ben hasn’t been home in years. “Yeah, I- was wondering what people do for fun around here.”

Ben arches an eyebrow, leans back in his chair, trying to ignore the flutter in his pulse. “Undergrads usually get drunk on cheap beer and fuck like rabbits. So I hear, of course, I’m not exactly well-versed in their activities.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sick of undergrads,” Teddy says, low.

Ben huffs a laugh. “You’re only a second-year, Mr. Peters. You have a while to go.”

Teddy just watches him.

“What do _you_ do for fun?” he asks. There’s something in the question that makes Ben look at him twice. Closer.

“I’m boring and old,” he says lightly. “Mostly just complain about the government and - well, still drink cheap beer.”

Teddy nods, eyes flickering, and it’s the worst kind of masochism that makes Ben say, not making eye contact, “Maybe you could tag along this weekend. Get a taste of grad student life.”

Teddy grins, eyes gleaming, and nods. He leans forward to scratch his leg, and his shirt gapes open, giving a nice view at the curve of his collarbone, the tanned skin of his chest. “I’d like that.”

Ben’s throat goes dry.

Pretty faces. _Fuck_. Ben’s helpless.

—

Teddy’s from Wisconsin, north and east of Ben. Real corn-fed country-bred kid, rich family, industrial farming. Dairy. He says this all with a disdainful curl of his top lip. Ben knows the feeling. Not that his family’s got that kind of money - or any money at all, really - but he knows. He recognizes that itch under Teddy’s skin, to shake off where he came from.

They end up on the top floor of some shitty cheap bar in town that Ben frequents when his student loan check is late, sharing a spliff in the bathroom. Ben’s friends are getting merry outside, and Ben can hear shouting, laughter, distant and faint and utterly unimportant next to Teddy’s big eyes and his full mouth.

Ben lights the joint, takes a deep hit, and passes it over to Teddy.

“I’m a bad influence,” he says after he exhales, making it sound rich, promising.

“Thank God,“ Teddy breathes, eyes glinting in the half-light of the open window. "I’ve been good for way too long.”

He puts his soft lips around the joint, sucks hard, eyes fluttering shut.

Fuck, he’s sin walking. Ben watches him drag in a mouthful of smoke, breathe it in and blow it out, easy as anything. He’s gotten high before, Ben can tell.

When he gives it back his fingers brush Ben’s. It sends a spark through him, all the way to his toes, hot and arresting.

He’s in deep. All he can hope for is that Teddy’s on his wavelength.

“That’s good shit,” Teddy says when he passes it back, his eyes going to slits when he grins. Fuck, he has the most gorgeous mouth.

“Suits you, then,” Ben says, drunk, daring. He half-expects Teddy to push him away and get the hell out of there. He can’t see Teddy hitting him, though it’s happened before. When Ben gets fucked-up he gets restless, and he does things he shouldn’t.

But more often than not, he’s right. He’ll take the occasional black eye if it gets him laid.

And thank fucking God, Teddy just smiles at him, and then says, fearless, “Here, taste it." 

He leans forward, slowly presses his mouth to Ben’s.

Good _lord_. Ben’s stunned still for a moment at the audacity - is he that easy to read? - and then he kisses back. He fits his lips around Teddy’s bottom one and sucks, licks, bites, until Teddy gasps into his mouth. He lets it go with an obscenely wet pop, kisses him full-on, everything a mess of slick tongue and pot smoke and the faint taste of beer.

"Fuck,” Teddy gasps out, shifting closer on the counter, his legs going around Ben’s waist, and oh, yeah, that’s his cock, pressing hard against the zip of his jeans.

God, Ben loves being right.

“You’re so damn hot, you know that?” Ben murmurs, kissing Teddy’s swollen bottom lip again. Teddy’s drawing in long, ragged breaths, his hands at his sides like he’s not sure how to proceed.

“Done this before?” Ben says kindly, running his palms down Teddy’s sides, gripping his hips. He’s soft there, skin giving under Ben’s fingers, a trace of puppy fat pushing over the waist of his jeans. “With a boy?”

Teddy shakes his head, staring at him.

“Thought about it?” Ben breathes, leaning forward, kissing Teddy’s neck.

“Y- _yeah_ , fuck,” Teddy gasps, as Ben sucks a bite right below his ear. He can’t help himself. Teddy tastes good, smells even better. Musky cologne and soap and sweet skin.

“Yeah? Tell me what you thought about.”

Teddy wriggles closer, practically offering his neck up like a sacrifice. Ben takes the hint, leaves another hickey under Teddy’s jaw.

“About- kissing. A boy,” Teddy gasps, and Ben laughs into his skin, gently.

“Good start.”

“About - like. Had this girlfriend last year, and she s-sucked my, my dick, and I- I thought about that,” Teddy stammers, low and shaky. “About doing that.”

He gives a shudder, like the mere thought is getting him off. Ben knows the feeling. The first time he sucked dick he came about two seconds after the other guy, pressed the heel of his hand into his cock and spilled into his jeans, shaking, terrified and so turned-on he felt like he’d explode.

“Can I do that to you?” Ben asks, his mouth watering suddenly at the idea. Teddy’s so fucking young and pretty and willing, his thighs already spread around Ben’s hips like it’s instinct. Ben hasn’t been this excited about someone in months.

“Fuck,” Teddy says, low, grabbing at him for another kiss, greedy and bold. “Yeah, please.”

Ben snorts, and tugs Teddy off the counter. “Sit on the toilet, kid,” he says, giving Teddy another kiss, short and hard.

Teddy goes, stumbling backwards, and when Ben sinks to his knees he pulls him up into a surprising, fierce sort of kiss.

He cups Ben’s face in his hands and says, “I think you’re fucking amazing.”

Ben laughs, undoing the buttons on Teddy’s jeans. “Haven’t even sucked your dick yet.”

“No, I - I mean it,” Teddy says, eyes boring into him. “I really like you. You’re so, um. Cool.”

His face goes red, and Ben shrugs inwardly, leans up into another kiss before he gently pulls Teddy’s hands off his face and lowers his mouth around Teddy’s thick cock.

If it gets Teddy hard to talk about how much he likes the boy who’s about to suck him off, then whatever. Ben’ll go with it.

Above him, Teddy chokes out a groan and buries his hand in Ben’s hair, and Ben grins, licking at the tip as Teddy gets wet.

He’s having fun, either way. That’s all that matters.

 

**NOVEMBER, 2011**

“Hiii, this is Nick Grimshaw, here with you til midnight, let’s kick off the show with this,” Harry says quickly into mic, and he nearly falls out of his chair trying to avoid a smack from Finchy. Nick giggles, presses Play on a new Alt-J track Harry’s been obsessed with ever since he heard it in Nick’s car a few weeks back.

“No mauling of the popstar, Matty!” Nick calls. “There’s a price on his head. Hair insured for ten grand, I hear-” 

Harry kicks Nick’s ankles, and Nick laughs at him, warm-eyed. 

“Is your hair really insured, by the way, Harry Styles? I’m gullible, I believe everything I read in Heat.” 

“Fuck off,” Harry says, and Matt claps a hand to his chest like he’s about to faint. 

“Swearing!” 

“The song’s on!” Nick protests, looking mischievous. “Don’t yell at him, he’s only a child.” 

“Should wash your mouth out with soap for that,” Matt says, shaking his head, and Harry sticks his tongue out at him. He’s running on pure adrenaline, since he slept about two hours the night before, all of it on a plane, and he’s so jetlagged he doesn’t know which way is up. He went straight to Nick’s flat from the airport, which makes his stomach thrill each time he thinks of it. 

Nick’s dancing in his chair, inspecting the notes for the rest of the show, and Harry wheels his chair up beside him to peer over his shoulder. 

“Ooh, what’s that mean, secret announcement?” Harry asks, tugging at the sleeve of Nick’s jumper. “What is ittttt?” 

“Gerroff me, you animal,” Nick says distractedly, still reading. Harry keeps pulling his sleeve, until Nick looks at him, laughing. “What is with you tonight?” 

Harry goes suddenly shy. 

“Nothing,” he says. Nick has a mark under one eye, a little pock in his cheek. Freckles on his nose. Harry tries not to stare.

“You’re being very weird,” Nick says, turning back to the paper. “Which I should really expect by now. Why do people think you’re cool?” 

“Cos my voice is really morbid,” Harry says, leaning back in his chair, so far it nearly falls over. “Makes me seem mysterious.” 

Nick snorts, making a note of something with a pencil. Harry leans over to see. _Play new MS track before news 10:25_. 

Harry yawns, so wide it makes his jaw creak and his eyes water. He swipes a tear off his cheek, and Nick looks at him. 

“Ohhh,” he say knowingly. “You’re all overtired like a toddler that’s up too late. Running around, not going to bed. Being a nuisance.” 

“C’n you put me to bed?” Harry asks, leaning his cheek against the back of the chair and blinking innocently at Nick, making his eyes as wide as he can. Nick likes his eyes. Nick likes his other bits, too, but Harry hasn’t figured out how to make him admit it. 

Nick laughs. “Harold. Hands to yourself. Metaphorical hands.” 

“Nick, you’re on-” Matt calls, and Nick gives Harry’s thigh a warm squeeze and scoots his chair up to the desk. 

“Alt-J!” he says, as the song fades out. “On Radio One, I’m _loving_ that track. Do you like that song, Fincham?” 

“I do like that song, yeah.” 

“It’s a good one. I’ve got inside word that a genuine grade-A popstar likes that song as well.” 

Harry smiles sleepily, pulls a face, and Nick grins at him. 

“Anyway, it’s Nick Grimshaw here, with you til twelve. I hope everyone’s alright. I’m good, me, fought off a hangover by five PM with the help of McDonald’s and about a dozen paracetamol, so I’m feeling _fresh_. I went to Sainsbury’s tonight to get my tea, and - Finchy, did you know Sainsbury’s doesn’t have pineapples?” 

“Why- first of all, I’m certain it does, and also why were you so determined to buy pineapple?” 

“Um, it didn’t, at all, at least this one didn’t. Canned, yes. Fresh, no. I was appalled. And my friend’s obsessed with them, alright, he says they make him feel all tropical, and it’s quite dim and sad outside, lately, isn’t it? We could all use a bit of tropics. A bit of a holiday. A mouth holiday.” 

“Mouth holiday,” Matt laughs. 

“Yeah!” 

Harry’s laughing, half-asleep. He likes being the friend Nick’s talking about on radio. A stupid little secret they’ve got, that no one else knows. He listens to Nick go into a long spiel about the utter awfulness of London winter, and before Nick finishes his link, he’s asleep. 

He wakes up five minutes later to Nick’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Love,” Nick says, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind Harry’s ear. Harry shivers, tries to pass it off as a chill. “Why don’t you go sleep on the sofa in the greenroom?” 

“Wanna be in here with you,” Harry mumbles. 

“Yes, well, there comes a time when a chick needs to leave the nest, and by nest I mean the studio,” Nick says, the backs of his fingers petting over Harry’s cheek for the briefest moment. He drops his hand. “Go on. I’ll wake you when I’m finished. Chick.” 

Harry grumbles, but he goes. 

He curls up on the sofa with Nick’s leather jacket thrown over him, smelling of fag smoke and cologne. He can hear Nick’s voice vibrating through the walls, all around him, and it feels so good Harry can’t keep himself from grinning. He falls asleep fast. 

\---

Harry comes awake to the touch of a hand on his cheek, and then his shoulder. He opens his eyes, blinks blearily up at the dark face above him. 

"Ben?" he croaks, half-asleep. 

"Yeah, babe, s'just me," Nick answers, distractedly. "C'mon, show's over. D'you want to split a cab home?" 

Harry groans, turns his face into the back of the sofa. "Nooo. I wanna sleep." 

"Literally a toddler," Nick murmurs, laughing. Harry feels Nick's hand rest on his hip, and he has to struggle not to shudder at the touch. "C'mon, Harry Styles, up you get." 

It's not until they're in the backseat of a cab that Harry realizes he called Nick a different name, back there. 

He gulps in a breath, stares determinedly out the window while a hot flush works its way down his neck. _Jesus_. How embarrassing.

"Here," Nick says, softly, as the taxi pulls to a stop in front of Harry's flat. "You first, popstar." 

Harry nods, scrubbing his hair out of his face, trying to seem normal. He digs ten quid out of his pocket, and Nick waves him off. 

"C'mon, I got it. Just go to bed." 

"Thanks," Harry mutters. 

Nick nods. "Umm, speak to you later, I suppose." 

"I'll text you," Harry says, his skin still prickling and hot. He shuts the door of the cab, lets out a shaky breath. The cab doesn't pull away until Harry's inside.

 

**NOVEMBER, 1968**

"Benjamin Roberts!" Ben hears, from across the quad, and he whirls around with an armful of books, grins when he realizes who it is. Teddy, with a gaggle of fellow sophomores, his teeth glinting white as he smiles. 

"Teddy Peters!" Ben yells back, and a couple of Teddy's friends look up bemusedly. Teddy gives him a goofy salute, nearly trips over someone's foot, and Ben snorts. 

He keeps walking once Teddy's turned away, but he can't keep his mouth from tugging up at the edges, helpless and giddy. It's just- _Teddy_. He was in Ben's bed two nights ago, kissing him, grinding down against Ben's thigh, all warm and pretty and eager. And now he's screaming Ben's name across the quad like it's not the biggest secret either of them have ever kept. What a fucking idiot. Ben ducks his head into the collar of his sweater, tries not to laugh out of sheer delight. 

"Look at you!" he hears, as Emma hurries down the steps of Rotenburg. She lowers her voice. "Someone's in _lo-ove_." 

"I am not," Ben says hastily, trying to rearrange his face. "Shut up." 

"He was over at yours this weekend, wasn't he?" she asks, falling into step beside him. She shakes her dark hair out of her face, tugs up the zipper of her jacket against the brisk fall wind. "I came by on Saturday night, your door was locked."

"I don't kiss and tell."

Emma bumps shoulders with him. "Prick."

Ben grins again, shuffles his books in his arms.  

"I heard he's, like, sort of slutty," Emma says. "Jenna Horowitz has him in her econ section and he's always flirting with the prof." 

"Which prof?" 

"Knudson? That blonde woman who transferred from Oberlin last year?" 

Ben scoffs. "I'm sure he's not _flirting_ -flirting with her. He's probably trying to get his grade up." 

"Jenna says he scored highest on the last exam, and he never stops staring at her rack." 

"Okay." Ben rolls his eyes. "Enough. I get it, you don't like him." 

"It's not that I don't _like_ him." 

"He's really nice, alright? He's nice and he's-" someone passes by, and Ben drops his voice to a whisper. "He's really hot, and he likes me, which is a miracle in itself-" 

"Shut up, Benjamin. You're twenty-six years old, low self-esteem is not cute anymore." 

"I'm old and decrepit. My dissertation has sucked the life from my body. I'm a shell of my former self." 

"You're in the prime of your fucking life, you idiot!" 

"Yeah right. These are my final years of freedom before I go and marry some random girl and move to the suburbs to pop out a dozen babies." 

Emma rolls her eyes again. "So don't waste 'em on a child who likes big tits and flirting with professors." 

"Heyyy." Ben shoves her shoulder. "He's not like that. You want to grab lunch before my 1 PM? I'm starving." 

Emma shrugs, and follows him into the dining hall. 

**FEBRUARY, 2012**

Nick finishes his set at half-eleven, hands the reins over to some stone-faced girl with a half-shaved head and metal dripping from her nose and ears. 

He pounds down the steps of the DJ booth, slings an arm around Harry’s shoulders, and Harry tries to pretend he hasn’t been staring at Nick for the past twenty minutes. 

“Well, popstar?” Nick shouts in his ear. The girl DJ is playing Barbie Girl by Aqua, which Harry did not see coming. “I’m dying for a fag, come outside with me?” 

Harry nods, and follows Nick through the crowd. 

Outside, Nick lights up. Absently holds the pack out to Harry and then snatches it away before Harry can reach for it. 

“Can’t do that,” Nick says. “To the _nation_. Can’t ruin all that pretty skin and those healthy young lungs.” 

He’s a bit drunk, but Harry is too, so it works. They’ve only hung out twice since Harry finished the European tour last month, and Harry’s still nervous in an odd way, and yet _happy_. He just gets this feeling, when they see each other, like Nick quite likes him, and thinks he’s clever, and would never hurt him. Just like this warm feeling. Harry’s not sure. He’s pissed. 

He leans against the brick wall next to Nick, holds out his hand for the fag. 

“Absolutely not,” Nick says, muffled around the cigarette. 

Harry pouts, and Nick rolls his eyes, hands it over. 

“You’ve got a singing voice to ruin,” he chides. “Though I suppose Florence does as well, and she’s like a bloody smokestack on a night out. Hmm.” 

“It’s worse to drink milk,” Harry says, taking a puff on the fag. 

“What? Really?” 

“Yeah, clogs up your vocal cords. Makes you all-” he coughs to demonstrate. “Mucus-y.” 

“Oh, lovely.” 

Harry laughs, and takes another drag. Nick pulls the fag out of his hand, and their fingers brush. Harry’s trying hard not to catalogue it all like that - fingers brushing, Nick’s hand on the small of his back, the way Nick smiles at him in a crowd, Nick’s casual constant texts while Harry was on tour. Harry's trying really hard. 

“So, Harold.” 

Harry doesn’t bother to correct him. 

“Yes, Nicholas.” 

“What’d you think of the set then? Go on. I want your thoughts.” Nick blows out a cloud of smoke. 

Harry hums. “Well…” 

He lets it hang until Nick huffs indignantly, and then he laughs. 

“It was good. I liked it. That one track - the one with like, do-do-dooo-do-do-doo, that one was sick.” 

Nick snorts at Harry's rendition. “You didn’t dance.” 

“Not gonna dance by myself.” 

“Ooh, it wasn’t that good then. If I’ve done really well, no one can keep themselves from dancing. Don't matter who you’re with, how sober you are, how much you’d rather be at home in your slippers watching Corrie and drinking tea. _No one_.” 

“I wanted to dance,” Harry says, tipping his head back against the wall. “But I wanted to watch you more.” 

He can feel the chill February air against his flushed cheeks. When he turns his head, Nick’s watching him, and the look sets off a drumbeat in Harry’s chest, steady and fast. 

“Sometimes I get the feeling you’re flirting with me, Harry Styles,” Nick says, very softly. 

“Only sometimes?” Harry says, and grins. 

Nick doesn't smile back. He turns away, takes another long drag on the cigarette. 

“Don’t do that,” he says, voice quiet now, serious. “Bit of a bad idea, that.” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, cos I’m ten years older than you, and gay, and a bit of a mess,” Nick says lightly. “And you’re a child popstar with hordes of screaming girls you can’t disappoint. People already hate that we're friends, and it'd only get worse if - if anything happened. It’s pretty self-explanatory, innit?” 

Harry looks down at the ground. 

“You don’t - like me,” he says. 

Nick laughs, a strangled sound. “Oh my god, popstar. That’s definitely not the issue here. The opposite, really.” 

“So you do like me.” 

“I- I’m saying it doesn’t matter how much I like you. Because it’s a stupid idea, and you’re fucking brilliant and talented, and I’m not going to let you kill your career before it-” 

Harry cuts him off with his mouth, putting his arm around Nick’s neck and kissing him. Their teeth clack uncomfortably and his mouth lands a bit sideways, but then they line up and it’s - it’s- 

Harry’s dimly aware of Nick tossing his fag away and sliding his palms onto Harry’s back, warm and wide, but all he can focus on is Nick’s mouth, the familiar taste of him, the warmth of his bottom lip. He smells like smoke and cologne and lemon-flavored vodka and his lips are soft, stubble rasping against Harry’s cheek, making him shiver, stand on his toes. 

Nick breaks off, panting, and Harry shakes his head, pulls him back in with a hand on the back of Nick’s neck, kisses him furiously. Nick likes to have his lip bitten, so Harry nips at it, and Nick squeaks gratifyingly, breath going shuddery and uneven and hands tightening on the meat of Harry’s hips. Nick likes so many things but especially he likes Harry. He likes Harry so much, for so long, Harry’s sure of it, and his whole body burns with the knowledge. _Finally_. 

“Harry,” Nick gasps out, and Harry ducks his head to Nick’s neck, starts to snog him there. Nick goes pliant against the wall, groaning out a hazy breath. 

“Mmgh, don’t,” he says, voice low and hushed. “T-Teddy, don’t, not here, someone’ll-” 

Harry bites his shoulder and gets a whimper in response. 

“Someone’ll-” he tries again. He smells so good, tastes so good under Harry’s mouth. “Someone’ll see, fuck, Ted, c’mon-” 

He moans when Harry grinds a thigh against his dick, hard in his jeans. Harry doesn’t know how he knows how to touch him, make him hard, but it’s happening. It feels so easy.

“Shit, Ben, I wanna suck you off,” Harry mumbles, before he snogs him so fiercely that Nick’s head cracks hard against the wall and his eyes open wide, the whites flashing in the dim light of the alley. His hands clench on Harry’s hips and then he’s shoving him backwards, letting out a rough breath. Harry stumbles, nearly falls on his arse. 

“What are you-” Nick shudders visibly, wipes his palm over his mouth, touches the lovebite Harry left on his collarbone. “What- who- what the _fuck_?” 

Harry’s still breathing hard, but the feeling is slipping away, replaced by the cold air cutting in through his t-shirt and his vodka buzz. Nick called him something. Nick said - something. And Harry did too, Harry said _Ben_ , again, like he did at the studio that time.

Harry clutches an arm over his chest. 

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Nick says. 

“Nick-” 

Nick stares at him, wild-eyed. “I’m fucking drunk.” 

He’s not that drunk. Harry lets out a shuddering breath. 

“You called me-” 

“Shut up,” Nick says, voice rising. “I’m really drunk-” 

“No, you’re not.” 

Nick rubs his palm over his mouth, and then turns away, ducks back inside. Harry follows him. The club is buzzing, now, the beat heavy under Harry’s feet, and he focuses on the back of Nick’s faded white t-shirt, cutting through the crowd until they’re at coat check. Nick hands Harry back his jacket, and Harry tries not to feel weepily grateful at the small kindness. 

Nick hails a cab without a word, not bothering to look back and see if Harry is behind him. In the backseat, he slides all the way over to the opposite window. 

“Are you angry with me?” Harry asks, after five whole minutes of silence. 

Nick chokes a strange laugh. “No.” 

“I- I feel like we need to, um, talk. About - about-” he fumbles for words. _About how you called me a different name and I called you a different name and it didn’t really feel that wrong and what the hell does that mean?_

“Harry,” Nick says. “I’m really drunk and I want to go to bed.” 

“It’s alright, you know. That you - called me, um-” 

“If you think it’s cos I was thinking of someone else, it’s not,” Nick says, loudly, not looking at him. “I’ve never- I’ve never been with anyone named that.” 

“I don’t think-” That hadn’t even crossed Harry’s mind. In his head, they’re in this together. Whatever _this_ is. 

“I don’t get what you’re _doing_ ,” Nick breathes out, tipping his forehead against the window. Harry watches his breath puff white against the glass. “I don’t get this.” 

Harry shuts his eyes, and neither of them speak for the rest of the ride home. 

**NOVEMBER, 1968**

They're in bed, awake at 3:00 AM on a Wednesday, because Ben's gone insane. He's gone fully fucking nuts over this boy. 

Teddy's just finished a story about his father, a rambling epic about a broken wine bottle last Christmas Eve, a shouting match that went on for hours, his mother trying desperately to calm them down, his older sister Alice sobbing dramatically in the bathroom. Ben listens, quietly traces the muscles in Teddy's stomach, the rise of his nipples. 

Teddy's family doesn't sound half-bad. They care about him. His dad may be a controlling prick, but he cares, and Teddy cares right back, Ben can tell from the wobble in his voice. 

Ben doesn't say that though. He just stays quiet, and touches him. He's got his own stories about his family, most of them not so pretty, but he doesn't say that either. 

"So," Teddy sighs. "That's why I'm staying in Connecticut this Christmas. I know we'll just get into it again if I go home." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeaah. With my roommate from last year. He's from Manhattan, but his parents have a house up there." 

Ben nods, raising his hand to Teddy's hair, stroking through his wild curls. Teddy smiles at him, tilts his chin up for a kiss. 

Everything's soft with him, in a way Ben's not used to. Teddy likes to go slow, he likes to kiss. Last week he pressed his mouth to the tip of each of Ben's fingers in turn before he lowered his head between Ben's legs, and Ben quivered deep in his stomach, at the tenderness of it. The way Teddy takes his time. 

Ben's happy, maybe. Maybe that's what this is. He doesn't want to think about it too much. 

"Hey," Teddy says, against Ben's mouth. He slings a leg up over Ben's hip, their half-hard pricks pressing together for a shuddery moment. They've both gotten off already, not even an hour before, but Ben groans anyway, lazily rocking against him. 

"Mmhm?" 

"Like," Teddy says, breathily. Ben tugs him closer with a hand on the round curve of Teddy's ass. "Like. Think I wanna try, like. You know. Being on the bottom." 

Ben swallows. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah," Teddy says, eyes bright. "I wanna, like, feel you." 

Christ, he's everything. He's everything Ben wants. Ben kisses him hard, fucks his tongue into Teddy's soft willing mouth, feels him moan. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice sounding hoarse. Teddy exhales slowly, blinking at him with soft eyes. "Yeah, baby, we can try it that way."

\---

He goes slow, but Teddy winces anyway, his face scrunched up with pain, head thrown back and to the side. Ben can see the tendons in his neck, straining. 

"Breathe out," Ben mumbles, peering down at where Teddy's opening to take him in. "Breathe." 

Teddy's jaw clenches, and he lets out a shaky breath. 

"Hurts," he mutters. "Fuck. You like this?" 

"It gets better." 

"Yeah, when?" 

"Soon." Ben chokes out a laugh. His face is sweating. Christ, Teddy's so tight. "I promise, babe." 

Teddy lets air out in a high whine when Ben pushes inside, all the way in. Ben's trying not to go off like a shot, just from the incredible heat of him, the pressure, skin against skin. 

"Alright?" 

Teddy's eyes are wide with something that looks like surprise, and his breath is loud, rushing in and out. 

"Yeah," he whispers. "G-go. Move." 

"Sure?" 

Teddy nods, and Ben rocks out, slides back in, watches Teddy's eyes roll back in his head. 

"Ted-" 

"Keep going," Teddy mutters. "Please." 

"Hurts?" 

"Hurts good." 

Ben groans at that, and thrusts in again, all the way, so deep that Teddy makes a low hoarse sound like he's being pierced to the core.

"Christ," he mumbles. "Fucking Christ." 

"Do you like it?" Ben gasps, touching Teddy's cheek with one hand. Fuck, he's so gorgeous. Ben never fucks like this, face to face, like a girl.No one ever wants it like that, except some pretty boy Ben screwed his third year of college, this skinny tall boy with blonde hair and pale long eyelashes. He put Ben on his back and did him that way and it was so good Ben cried after, grateful and ashamed. 

The year after that, the boy jumped off a bridge in Philadelphia. The papers said he fell, but Ben knows he jumped. 

"Yeah," Teddy says, eyes shining. "Christ. Yeah. Keep. Keep-" 

Ben works his hips in deep, the breath punched right out of his chest at the way Teddy's looking at him. "Good? Is it good?" 

"Yes," Teddy groans. "Yes, yes, fuck. Yeah." 

God, he _likes_ it. He likes it. Thank God. Sometimes when it's late and Ben's alone he convinces himself that he's the only fucking person in the entire world who wants this. The only one who _needs_ it. 

But Teddy- Teddy looks like he needs it, the way he's moaning, so loud Ben's scared someone'll hear. It's only Emma and Jess in the house with him, but still. One wrong person catches on and they're - they're both screwed. And not in the fun way. 

Ben shakes himself, focuses on Teddy, sprawled out beneath him, his legs around Ben's waist and his face slack with pleasure. 

"Mm," he slurs, sounding drunk. "Harder." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeaaah, fuck, harder," Teddy chokes, and then, low, "Fuck me harder." 

Ben's breath catches hard, and he goes deep and fast on the next thrust. Teddy moans, shockingly loud in the small room. 

"Shh, shh, god," Ben says, laughing helplessly, his heart clenching. "Shut up, Ted, someone'll hear." 

"Fuck it," Teddy mumbles, right before Ben works his hips in again and he whimpers, "- _fuck_ , fuck, God, let 'em hear. Let 'em hear."

He's crazy. He's goddamn crazy and he'll get them both killed, and Ben's never felt like this about anyone before. He'd die right alongside Teddy if he had to. He's sure of it, the knowledge coursing through his veins hot and fast, and when Teddy tips his head back and starts to jack himself off, Ben comes, groaning, spilling inside him. 

Teddy follows after only a few strokes, sobbing out a breath and coming all over his belly, hot spurts of white. He strokes himself through it until he's shivering, Ben's dick still inside him, and Ben can't take his eyes off him. 

"You're so-" _beautiful_ , he wants to say, but instead he stammers out - "God - god that was fucking good." 

Teddy pulls Ben down into a kiss, hot and surprising. They're sticky with sweat and jizz and Ben's dick is going soft but Teddy doesn't let him pull away for a long time. His hand slides down the back of Ben's head, to his neck, and then the skin of his back, a slow stroke. 

"Christ," he breathes, low and reverent, and Ben nods. That's how he feels too. That's how he feels. 

**FEBRUARY, 2012**

Harry wakes up slowly, clawing his way out of a strange blurry dream. He’s in bed with someone, someone warm and solid in front of him, arse and back all snugged up against Harry’s front. 

The person in front of him shuffles back a bit, letting out a sigh, and Harry realizes two things at once. That’s a boy, in bed with him, and - Harry’s hard. He rolls his hips forward, like a reflex, and the boy sighs again. 

“Morning,” Harry says, voice coming out raspy and low. 

“Morning,” Nick murmurs sweetly back, and - that’s his arse, against Harry’s dick, soft and hot. Harry rolls forward again, feels the head of his cock press between Nick’s cheeks. They didn’t go to sleep naked, Harry’s pretty sure, but they’re naked now, so that’s- 

“Mmgh,” Nick hums, reaching back to put a hand on Harry’s hip, pull him closer. He has a line of freckles on his shoulder, and Harry shivers at the touch, puts his face into the skin of Nick’s back. 

He’s never done this. Been naked with a man, in the same bed. He _knows_ he’s never done this, but it still feels like instinct to roll Nick over onto his belly, watch his face press into the pillow, stroke a hand down the warm slope of Nick’s spine and then the rise of his arse. It’s almost like a trance, the way he feels - blurry and indistinct, like he’s still dreaming. 

“Mmm,” Nick breathes again, sounding happy and still-asleep, and Harry hums back, jerks himself a few times, feeling the slick of precome on his hand. He lifts his palm to his mouth, spits a few times, rubs his wet fingers in between Nick’s arsecheeks. Nick sighs in response, legs shifting open, exposing his hole. 

There are reasons they’re not supposed to do this. Harry remembers that, vaguely, Nick’s worried face and his body on the distant other side of the cab the night before, carefully not touching. 

They don’t feel important right now, though. Harry’s pressing a finger inside Nick, barely wet, and Nick’s making soft rough sounds in his throat, pushing back against it, and - nothing else is important. 

Harry spits again, rubs his hand down his dick, wet with slick and saliva. Nick lifts his hips, pillows his head in his hands, grunts low when Harry spreads him open and pushes inside. 

They’ve done this so many times, but Nick whimpers anyway, muscles in his thighs trembling. Harry pets his back to soothe him, feels Nick exhale, feels his body open around the length of Harry. 

Harry mumbles when he’s inched his way inside, puts his face to the back of Nick’s neck and fucks forward with a deep roll of his hips, the friction making his breath catch in his throat. Nick arches back to take it, and it’s a deep fuck, hot and slow, sweat starting to slick up their bodies, each thrust easier than the next. Just Harry’s bare cock and Nick’s tight arse, skin against skin, the most familiar thing Harry’s ever felt. Harry kisses the back of Nick’s neck, puts his hand against the birthmark he knows is on Nick’s hip. Presses his fingers to it, and then slips his hand around to jerk Nick off. 

“Gngh,” Nick mutters into his hands. He’s wet, too, and hard like steel in Harry’s hand, flesh slippery and hot. “F-faster, Teddy, fuck.” 

Harry shakes his head, kissing against the knob at the top of Nick’s spine. He’s not going faster. He’s staying right there, drawing it out, because fuck knows when he’ll get this next. When they’ll have time to have lazy morning sex without Harry having to run to class, or Harry waking up to the slam of Nick’s apartment door as he leaves for the library, a note on Harry’s chest that reads _Ted - Writing all day. Come by tonight. - B_

Harry hates those notes. He hates waking up with a piece of paper in his bed instead of Nick himself, the warm length of him, his hairy chest and soft belly and mussed hair. 

So no. Harry’s not going any fucking faster. 

He presses in achingly slow, and Nick moans on a drawn-out breath, voice stuttering. 

“T-teddy, fuck, fuck, c’mon-” 

“You like it?” Harry says against Nick’s ear. 

Nick’s hands are clenching white-knuckled in the sheets, and he doesn’t answer. He’s panting. 

“Ben,” Harry says sharply. He blows a stream of hot air in Nick’s ear and Nick shudders, clenches hot around him. “You like how I feel?” 

“Fuck off,” Nick says, sounding like he’s laughing, or about to come. Something breaking and giddy in his voice. 

“You first,” Harry murmurs back, snorting when Nick makes an indignant sound. He takes pity on him, though, and speeds up, making his thrusts short and choppy, all friction and heat, until Nick’s whining and spilling come into Harry’s hand. 

Harry grins, nuzzles against Nick’s back as he slams his hips in once, twice more. Nick’s still shivering, coming down, when Harry comes inside him, eyes squeezing shut. 

They lie there for a minute, fucked-out and boneless, Harry breathing in the scent of Nick, the skin under his ear, his soft hair. 

Nick grunts, and reaches back to shove at Harry’s hip. “Get off me, Ted, I can’t breathe.” 

Harry rolls off to the side, and Nick flops onto his side, looks at Harry, smiling. Harry looks back. 

Nick’s eyes widen slowly as they take each other in, and Harry feels a trickle of something icy cold down his back, his head clearing. 

“Harry,” Nick says, voice shaking, and then he sits up, starts patting at his torso with both hands. He touches his legs, and then reaches behind him to- “Oh my _god_. Oh my god.” 

“Nick-” 

“Oh my fucking god,” Nick chokes out. “You just - we-” 

Harry sits up. “Calm down.” 

“I’m not gonna calm down!” Nick says, voice thick and terrified. “What the hell was that?” 

Harry has no idea. “Nick, let’s just-”

“You didn’t use a fucking _condom_!” Nick’s voice cracks, and he turns away, staggers up from the bed, legs shaky. “Fucking hell!" 

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry says, and something lodges hot in his throat. He puts a hand over his face. “I didn’t - fuck. Fuck.” 

Nick grabs for his pants, lying in a heap on the floor next to Harry’s. He wriggles into them, nearly stumbling. Harry can see his hands trembling. “This is so fucked, Harry. I don’t do that. I don’t bloody do that. I dunno where you got the idea that I'm, like, up for it like that-” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry says, voice choked. “Grim, I really didn’t - please, like, just - I didn’t mean to.” 

Nick turns to him, his eyes huge. “Tell me you’re - you’re clean.” 

Harry drops his hand from his face. “What?” 

“Clean,” Nick bites out, his jaw clenched. “As in, you’ve had your fucking blood checked in the past however-long-it’s-been-since-you-fucked-someone, which is probably about four hours, since you can’t keep your bloody dick in your trousers-” 

“Nick-” 

“Because you just fucking came inside me!” Nick says, voice going high. “And no one’s ever done that, ever, in my entire life, so tell me you’re fucking clean!” 

“I’m clean!” Harry says, holding out his hands. “I swear to God, Nick. We get tested like every month, I just went in two weeks ago, I swear, I’m - trust me, okay? You can see my medical records. I swear.” 

Nick stares at him, and then nods, swallows hard, throat bobbing. 

“You can’t do that again.”

“Nick, don’t fucking act like - that wasn’t me. You know that wasn’t me.” 

“Who the hell was it, then?” 

“I don’t bloody know!” Harry gasps out. “But it wasn’t me, Nick. You called me-” 

“Harry-"

“You called me a different name again. You kept calling me-” 

“Stop it,” Nick chokes out. “Shut up, Harry, seriously.”

“You were there too, and you kept saying that, and-” 

“I’m drunk,” Nick says, voice wobbly. “We’re drunk. Or high or summat. Poisoned.”

“Maybe we were asleep.” 

“I wasn’t asleep,” Nick says. “Dunno how much sex you’ve had in your life, but I don’t stay asleep when someone puts their dick inside me with no _fucking_ lube.” 

Harry’s face goes burning hot. “I didn’t-” 

“Mean to, yeah, you've said.” 

“You weren’t - I mean, we were both doing it, we were both, like- you, um, you got off, Grim, it wasn’t just me-” 

Nick shuts him up with a look. Harry blinks at him, helplessly, clutching a pillow to his chest. He feels like he’s going to be sick. 

“I’ve never even, um, had sex with a boy before,” he says, trying to swallow around the hot lump in his throat. “And I’ve never had sex without a condom, ever, alright, it wasn’t like I - it wasn't like I meant to.” 

He puts his hand over his face again because he’s going to cry and he doesn’t want Nick to see it. 

Nick lets out a loud breath. “Harry-” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry chokes out. “I’m sorry, alright?” 

“Oh, Christ.” Harry feels Nick’s weight dip the bed, and then a warm hand on his bare back. “Don’t- don’t cry, shit, Hazza.” 

“I hurt you.” 

“Oh god, you didn’t. You didn’t. I’m fine. I'm an old model, me. Durable. Like one of those flip phones you can drop a thousand times and not break.” 

He rubs Harry’s spine, and Harry puts his face against Nick’s shoulder, still faintly sticky from sweat and smelling familiar, the way it did when Harry was buried inside him and kissing the skin there. 

“I didn’t mean to.” 

“I see that,” Nick says, softly. He reaches up to tangle a hand tentatively in Harry’s hair. “I know. It’s not your fault.” 

Harry opens his mouth against Nick’s skin, gives him a kiss, and Nick gently pushes his head away. 

“Don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. 

Harry shudders. He didn’t even - it’s like, he doesn’t mean to and then it happens, these strange overfamiliar accidental things, like Nick is his, like they’re together. He doesn’t know what any of it means. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Nick says, patting the back of Harry’s head a few times. “You make coffee, yeah?” 

Harry feels a tiny bit better with a plan. He nods, and Nick squeezes his shoulder, stands up. Harry watches the toilet door close behind him. 

\---

They settle in the kitchen with coffee, on opposite sides of Nick's kitchen table, watching each other warily. Nick's showered and dressed, his hair in a quiff, and Harry feels vulnerable and soft in his pyjamas, like Nick's got a suit of armor on instead of just a worn-out designer t-shirt. 

"Maybe it's like," Harry says, slowly. Nick's not gonna like this. "Reincarnation, or summat." 

Nick looks at him disbelievingly. "Really?" 

"I don't _know_ ," Harry hisses. "Why else would we keep- it feels, like. Specific. Like we're remembering something, with the names, and - the, uh, the sex-" 

Nick goes red and averts his eyes. "How can we remember something that hasn't happened?" 

"But- maybe it did," Harry says, chewing his lip. "Maybe it did, and like-"

He stops. 

"What?" 

"Sounds stupid." 

"Just say it," Nick says, scrubbing a palm over his face. 

"Maybe it happened, and like - it's like, we have the same soul or memory or summat. So we're getting all this- leftover stuff."  

Harry winces. "And you know I'm not even bloody religious, alright? I wouldn't believe this sort of thing if it weren't-" 

"- happening," Nick finishes, quietly. 

There's a pause. Harry gnaws at his fingernail. 

"Maybe it's just schizophrenia or something," Nick suggests after a minute, looking hopeful. 

"Yeah, we both went schizophrenic at the exact same time and have the same things in our heads? Our brains wouldn't, like, know how to do that," Harry says, staring at the tabletop, thinking about it. _Souls_. Is that possible? His soul being someone else's? 

What the hell is a soul, anyway? 

"How can we test it?" he says after a minute. 

"Test it?" Nick says, laughing. "I want to pretend it's not happening until it stops. That's my usual method of dealing with things-" 

"It's not gonna stop," Harry says, not sure how he knows, but he _knows_. "So we should - just. Try and test it." 

"How?" Nick asks, flicking his eyes up to Harry's. 

Harry looks down into his coffee. Nick's not going to like this either, probably. "It seems like it happens when, um, when we're - uhh. Being intimate." 

" _Being intimate_ ," Nick repeats, eyes wide. "Being intimate!" 

"Shut up," Harry mumbles. 

"Being intimate," Nick chokes out, starting to laugh. "Oh my god, you're like a mum. _When we're having private time in our bathing suit areas_ -" 

"Shut up!"

Nick gasps out a last laugh.

"So," he says. "You're saying we have to have sex again. For science." 

Harry's face feel like it'll fall off, it's so hot. "That's not what I said." 

"I mean, it's sort of what you said." 

"It's not - I'm just, like, _observing_ , that when we- I dunno, get, um, close - the thing happens. With the names." 

"Well, I'm pretty maxed out at one dick in my arse per day, if you don't mind-" 

"I didn't mean - that." 

Nick looks down. "Yeah. Well. What else?" 

Harry doesn't _know_. Harry doesn't bloody know what's happening, or if he likes blokes, or if he's going fucking insane. 

If he's nuts, Nick is too. That makes Harry feel slightly less like he wants to start sobbing. 

"I dunno," he says. "I dunno." 

Nick nods, slowly. 

"How 'bout," he says. "We do nothing. For a little while at least. See what happens." 

Harry looks up at him, blindsided. "Like not see each other?" 

Nick swallows hard. "I dunno, maybe. We've been, like. Spending quite a bit of time together, since you got back. Since - since last year, really. Maybe it's-" 

"That's not a good idea," Harry says, clenching his jaw. 

"I don't mean forever," Nick breathes. "Just, just to see if it's - I mean, you're going back on tour soon, we could-" 

"Don't say you don't want to see me," Harry says. Maybe he will cry after all. Fuck. He - he can't be alone. Even if he's not _alone_ , he's alone without Nick. "Please, Grim. Don't-" 

"Of course I want to see you," Nick says sharply. "Obviously I-" 

"Then don't do this." 

Nick gusts out a sigh, rubs his hand over his face. "Harry." 

"We don't - we don't have to hook up if you don't want to. Was just a theory."

Nick lets out a pained laugh. "If I don't _want_ to? I keep telling you, popstar, it's not a question of wanting to." 

"This morning, though," Harry says, voice small. "You didn't-" 

"What?" Nick looks at him, eyes flashing dark. "Didn't like it?"

Harry flushes. "I dunno." 

"I don't-" Nick starts, and huffs out a breath. "I don't let people - I mean, you have to get why I freaked out, like - I've never, um, done that before. Not been safe. I've like never had a real boyfriend, alright? Or anyone I- you know. Trusted enough to, um. Do that with." 

His face is red. 

Harry chews his lip. "I've never done it either." 

"I know." Nick's quiet for a second, and then he says, softly, "That doesn't mean I didn't like it." 

Harry looks up, something flaring in his gut.

"The sex, I mean," Nick says, voice low. "The sex was. Fuck. I, um." 

He covers his face with both hands, bracelets slipping down his wrists. 

"This is _ridiculous_ ," he moans. "You're eighteen. I can't do this." 

"Don't bloody say it's just cos of my age," Harry says hotly. "You didn't care when I had a thing with Caroline-" 

"Because Caroline's a _woman_ ," Nick says, peeking through his fingers, blinking despairingly at Harry. "You don't understand, Haz. It's different, with - with us, people'll think I took advantage-" 

"Well, you didn't." 

"I know I didn't, but-" 

"Who gives a shit what people think?" 

"Don't be stupid," Nick chokes out. "We all give a shit what people think."

Harry draws in a shaky breath. "So we can't - see each other anymore, cos you're scared people will think you're. Whatever." 

"Creepy," Nick fills in, grimly. "Messing around with a kid."

"I'm not a kid," Harry snaps. 

"I know." Nick uncovers his face. His eyes are red. "I know you're not. And I'm not saying we can't, like, be friends." 

He stops again, lets out a long breath.

"There's just something - happening," he says. "Like, I can't - when you touch me, Haz, it's like-" 

He falters. 

"It's like we can't stop or summat," Harry supplies. 

Nick nods, sniffing in hard. Harry bites his lip.

"And then there's the name thing-" 

"Can we _please_ not talk about the name thing again." Nick slumps back in his chair, rubbing his temples. 

Harry watches him. There's this warm prickly feeling running through him, like power, a certainty thrumming in his veins. He knows - he knows, if he tried, he could bring Nick to his knees in front of him, break down all his flimsy protests. Could keep Nick on his back in bed all day, if Harry wanted him there.

Harry shudders and looks away.

Nick's still rubbing his face with both hands like it'll help the situation. "I just think we should try, at least, I dunno," he says wearily. 

"To not-" 

"- not see each other, I guess. Fuck. I dunno." 

Harry could _break_ him. He could. Run his hand up Nick's leg, touch that spot on his inner thigh that always makes him weak. He'd have Nick begging for more in five minutes- 

"Fine," he says, swallowing it down, his throat burning. "Fine, we can - we can try it." 

Nick looks at him. 

"Alright," he says softly. "Just until this whole - thing stops." 

It won't stop. Harry knows that like he knows the back of his hand. 

But if Nick wants him to try, he'll try. 

**DECEMBER, 1968**

"Why can't we stay in," Teddy mumbles, face smushed into Ben's stomach. 

"I said I'd go out," Ben sighs. "We're meeting at the union, alright. Just for a couple hours." 

Teddy lifts his head, chin sinking into Ben's stomach, hair all flattened down on one side of his head. "But I want to fuck you." 

He grins, eyes gleaming, and Ben shoves him gently by the forehead. 

"Can fuck me after," he says, ignoring how giddy that makes him feel, just to say it out loud. "Wait two hours, you randy bastard. Get dressed." 

Teddy grumbles, and rolls off the bed. 

They walk side by side through campus, just as it's getting dark. Teddy's shivering in his too-light leather jacket - how he survived a childhood in Wisconsin Ben'll never know - and he smiles slow when Ben shoves his scarf at him. 

"Thanks," he says, sounding smug as he winds it around his neck.

"Shut up." 

"What?" 

"Nothing," Ben says, trying not to smile. His heart hurts sometimes, throbbing like it's too big for his chest. "Want a cig?" 

"Yeah, man, thanks," Teddy says, and they stop to light up. Ben knows they're in public, but he can't keep his eyes off Teddy's mouth. 

Teddy looks up at him as he takes his first drag, eyes scrunching happily at the attention. "What?" he mumbles. 

"Nothing," Ben says again, quietly. "You're just cute." 

Teddy grins so wide the cigarette falls out of his mouth, and Ben has to light him another one. Idiot. 

\---

Teddy lingers by his side for the first half hour or so, but he's not shy, and by the time Ben's two beers deep Teddy's off at the other side of the bar, leaning against the wooden bartop and nodding at a girl with a silver hoop in her nose and long wild hair. 

Ben watches them for a minute - both their brows furrowed, deep in discussion - and jerks when someone squeezes his shoulder. 

"Benjamin, my man!" 

Ben settles back in his seat, trying not to go red at being caught staring. He smiles. "Hey, Keith." 

"How goes it? Haven't seen you in a while." 

"It goes," Ben says vaguely, peering past Keith to where Teddy's still talking to that girl. "You know. Dissertation."

"Yeah, man, I've been there." 

"Yeah." Ben takes a sip of his beer. 

"You feel like getting loose, brother?" Keith says, eyebrows waggling, flashing a spliff at him under the table. 

Ben looks down at it, and then back up at Teddy. Fuck it. Maybe that'll help shake the weird feeling in his stomach. 

"Yeah," he says, and Keith grins, nods him out back. 

It's cheap shit, skunky, and Ben has to spit out leaves a couple times. 

"You still can't roll for shit, man." 

"Eh, fuck off." 

Ben laughs, takes a long hit and passes it over, leaning against the brick wall.  

"You hear about this shit with SDS?" Keith asks, before he sucks on the joint. 

Ben shakes his head. "You know I'm a complete fucking hermit when I'm writing." 

It's been less writing and more fucking Teddy every chance he gets, but Keith doesn't need to know that. 

"Yeah, well. Shit's getting serious. Two dozen undergrads got arrested at the Capitol last week."

"Arrested?" 

"Rounded up and put in paddywagons, man. This chick in my class said her boyfriend got roughed up pretty bad." 

Ben takes the joint back, ashing it onto the ground. "Shit." 

"They're planning all this stuff for the next few months. Got a real schedule and everything. Went to a meeting last week and, like. They ain't fucking around." 

Ben nods, slow. It's not like he didn't expect it. The college is big, and mostly liberal, and it's not like they'd be the first campus to go radical. Ben's gone to a few protests himself, back when he was an undergrad, and things have only gotten more fucked. "I'll keep an eye out." 

"Yeah." Keith finishes the joint, drops it and grinds his toe against it. "I need a beer." 

"Me too." 

They duck back inside the smoky bar, and Ben peers over at the table of his friends. No Teddy. He scans the bar, finally catches sight of Teddy's mop of dark hair, sitting on a bench between that same girl from before and a kid with blonde hair and a pointy face. Teddy's nodding a lot, his brow furrowed, not saying much. 

Ben slides back into his seat, and Emma leans over to murmur in his ear.  

"Looks like your boy's found some new friends," she breathes. "Tell him to be careful." 

"Teddy can take care of himself," Ben says, letting out a laugh that feels forced. 

"They're like a cult, though, at this point," Emma says with a sniff. "Bloodthirsty little undergrads who wanna piss off mommy and daddy." 

"Who is? Who's like a cult?" Ben's brain isn't working fast enough. 

"SDS," she says with a shrug. "Pretty sure I overheard Teddy promising he'd go to next week's meeting." 

Ben looks over at Teddy again. His throat's dry from smoking, and he grabs for Emma's cup of water and takes a gulp. "He said that?" 

"Let the kid have a cause," Emma says, sounding bored. "Whatever. He'll get bored when he realizes it's not all fucking loose hippie chicks and smoking pot." 

"You seriously don't like him, do you?" 

"I don't like that I never get to see you anymore," she says sweetly, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "That's all." 

Ben turns to press a kiss against the side of her mouth. "Well, let's fix that. Lunch tomorrow?" 

She grins, and kisses him full on the mouth, tasting like vodka and waxy lipstick. "Yes please."

**APRIL, 2012**

A week passes. Then a month. Harry doesn't text Nick, he doesn't ring him, he doesn't show up at Nick's flat. They see each other at events and smile politely, exchange cheek-kisses and vague greetings, smile for photos, Nick's hand pressing lightly at the small of Harry's back. They're never alone together. 

Harry goes to rehearsals, goes to the gym, goes out for dinner, eventually falls into bed with one of Ed's mates, short and giggly with bright blonde hair and a nice chest. Her name's Anna, she's a teacher, and she gives exactly zero shits about Harry's career. She just wants sex and a laugh, and Harry's happy to provide both.

She's sweet, so Harry goes for a second round, and by the fourth time they've hooked up he can almost, almost forget what it felt like to fuck Nick. 

He's dozing off in her bed one night, shagged-out and drunk from a wine-soaked dinner, when she reaches over to flick the radio on. 

Nick's voice sings out, warm and merry and saying something about Rihanna, and Harry sits up so fast his head spins. 

"What?" Anna asks bemusedly, looking up from her phone. 

"Nothing," Harry says blankly, but his body's gone tense, skin prickling at a sudden memory of Nick beneath him, visceral and vivid. Nick's long long legs, spreading open, and the way it felt to sink bare inside him. How tight Nick was. Christ. 

Harry swallows, tugs the sheets over his erection. With the way they are, he could probably ask Anna to take care of it, but that feels - weird. He's hard for Nick. 

He turns his back to her in bed, fiddling with his phone, but his dick is too eager to ignore, especially when the song ends and Nick comes back on air. Harry lets out a sigh when he hears Nick's voice, the feeling like sinking into a hot bath. 

"And that was the latest off Rih-Rih, of course, everyone's heard that by now. _Sick_ tune, that. I wanted a double play off it but Finchy said no, didn't you, Finchy-" 

Matt says something unintelligible, off mic, and Nick laughs, creaky and warm and knowing. Harry shudders, a flush going down his neck. His cock's rock hard now, a steady pulse between his legs. It seems unfair, all of a sudden, their plan to not see each other. Unfair and - and stupid and pointless. Utterly pointless. They can't _not_. That's not how it works.

Nick's laughing again, and Harry swallows hard and listens, sliding his hand down to press against the aching bulge of his- 

The radio turns off. Harry blinks, lifts his hand. 

"Going to bed, I think," Anna says, in her lilting Welsh accent. "Can stay if you like, I've got to be out early though. Staff meeting." 

"Yeah, cool, thanks," Harry says unsteadily, and she turns the light off. 

He lies there frozen, eyes open, until his dick goes down. It takes a while, because his brain's on repeat, playing all the bits of Nick it remembers. His warm mouth. His laughing eyes. God, _Christ_ , the hot clutch of his hole, and the muscles in his back flexing when Harry fucked him. The way he shivered with Harry's come inside him, face-down in bed, full and dripping and happy.

Harry shudders hard, carefully bites down on his own wrist until the need to touch himself isn't so urgent. 

Only a few weeks til tour. Barely any time at all. He'll just - he'll just get out of the country and get Nick out of his head. 

**JANUARY, 1969**

"Why are leftist boys so intensely allergic to commitment?" Ben asks, as a general query, when he's three beers deep and Emma's looking bored of her sociology textbook. 

"Because monogamy is a product of capitalism," she answers promptly, and then peers up at him through her glasses. "At least that's what Teddy would say. This is about Teddy, right?" 

"No!" Ben says, and then he sighs. "Yes. Caught him making out with some blonde bimbo from San Fran at a party last weekend. Pretty sure he had his hand down her tacky floral shorts." 

Emma rolls her eyes and sighs simultaneously. "Jesus, Ben. I warned you." 

"How's it capitalist to want commitment?" Ben whines, ignoring the obvious and frankly unnecessary judgment in her tone. 

"The family unit is, like, about private property," she says, flipping a page in her textbook. "Forces propres versus social powers. Orgies are about togetherness, and commitment is about wanting to keep someone to yourself like a dirty property-owner. I dunno." 

"That makes no sense." 

"Brush up on your Marx, asshole," she says breezily. "That makes _perfect_ sense."

"I just _like_ him," he says, and his voice cracks. 

She looks up. 

"I know you do, babe." 

He drains his beer, shaking his head. 

"God, I've never seen you this worked up over a boy," she says, sighing. "And it's some random sophomore from Nowheresville who thinks he's God's gift to humankind and smokes too much pot." 

"Shut up," Ben says, batting at her arm. "He's sweet. And hot." 

"In a really greasy way." 

Ben just sighs, and Emma clucks at him and pushes her drink over to him. Ben takes it. 

"Is he even gay?" she says, tilting her head at him. 

Ben shrugs, gulping the drink. 

"He likes boys," he says. "If he likes girls too, whatever. Don't we all, right." 

"But does he actually like boys, or does he just like the idea of doing something dangerous?" 

Ben glares at her. "Don't do that." 

"I'm sorry, babe, I just don't want you to get hurt." 

"I'm not gonna get hurt." Ben finishes her drink, and laughs when she yelps indignantly and pulls the glass back towards her. "Don't worry about me. I'll get you another drink, babe, what do you want?" 

**MAY, 2012**

Self-control's a funny thing. Funny in that Harry's really bloody bad at having it when he needs it most. 

One measly week left until tour, and Pixie invites him out to day-drink and lounge around on Primrose Hill. An invitation from Pixie means Nick will be there, most likely, so Harry should say no. One _week_. Premieres and fashion events are alright, maybe, but not sitting around in the grass with only a few people and no cameras. 

Instead he texts back: _When/where should we meet? Xx_

He's stepping out of a taxi when he sees them all sprawled out over the grass. Pixie and her boyfriend. Aimee. And- 

Harry's throat goes bone-dry. Nick's there, long legs stretched out in denim shorts, head thrown back as he laughs. Harry sidesteps a pair of screaming toddlers and makes his way over to them, footsteps soft on the grass. 

"Hi," he says, and Pixie shrieks. 

"Oh _hello_ , babes!" 

"Hi Harry," George says politely. 

"Hi," Harry repeats, looking at Nick now. Nick has sunglasses on, and he's peering up at Harry with an expression Harry can't read. 

"Hi," Aimee says, voice sounding flatter than usual, unimpressed. 

"Sit down, Styles," Pixie says bossily, tugging at Harry's ankle. "We're lounging." 

Aimee snorts, as Harry sinks down into the grass, between her and Nick.

"Lounging," he repeats, because his brain's too giddy from the sight and feel of Nick to think of anything new to say. 

Aimee presses a beer bottle into his hand, already opened. 

"Thanks," he says gratefully, looking over at her, but she's sinking down to lie on her back, not watching him. 

Harry sips his beer, shuts his eyes for a minute as the sun warms him right through. It feels good, to be there, grass under his arse and Nick right there by his side. Makes Harry forget why this is all a bad idea. 

"Nice day for it, innit," Nick says after a quiet few minutes, when Harry's finished with his beer and considering having a kip in the grass. 

Pixie murmurs her assent. Aimee's got her skirt pulled up her legs so she can tan, and Pixie and George are half-asleep, Pixie's dark head on George's chest. 

No one's watching when Harry moves his hand over, in the space between him and Nick. No one sees when their fingers touch, and Harry lets out a weak wobbling breath at the contact. 

Nick's pinky strokes over Harry's ring finger, so gentle it could be an accident. When Harry looks over at him, Nick's staring determinedly away, across the grass, a muscle clenching in his jaw. 

Oh, fuck. Harry wants to roll over, bury his face between Nick's legs. He wants to fuck Nick right here, get Nick crying on his cock, riding it the way he knows Nick wants to. He wants, he wants- 

Nick takes his hand away to fumble for his beer bottle, and Harry lets out a strained breath he didn't know he was holding. 

"I'm, like. So bloody hot," Nick says, sounding off-kilter. "Think it's sunstroke or summat. I might head back for a kip before the radio." 

"We only just got here," Pixie murmurs drowsily. 

"Yea-ah, but I'm knackered," Nick sighs, gathering up his things. "You dragged me out after work last night." 

"Not the one who forced you to take three shots in a row and start whinging on about your love life," Pixie says, and Nick darts a glance at Harry, quick and furtive. His cheeks are flushed, and he hastily shoves his sunglasses down over his eyes. 

"I'll go too then," Harry says, in a moment of weakness, daring Nick to contradict him. 

Nick swallows. "Fine." 

They make it back to Nick's in silence, tromping along with their sunglasses on. Nick's carrying a bag which bumps against Harry's leg every couple steps, but Harry doesn't complain.It's stupid, but even Nick's _bag_ touching him feels better than not being touched at all. 

Nick unlocks the door of his flat. 

"I seriously need to nap," he says, shoving the door open and letting Harry in first. Harry steps inside, inhaling deep. Nick shuts the door and locks it. "I mean, you can watch telly if you- _fuck_!" 

He gusts out a breath, from where Harry's got him pinned to the door of his flat. 

"Harry," he says, weakly, and Harry's so sick of pretending they don't both want this, so he drops his hand to Nick's crotch, feels out his dick, half-hard already. Nick groans. 

"Har-" he tries, licking his lips noisily, head thunking back against the door as Harry unzips his jeans and pulls Nick out, cock hot and flexing eagerly against Harry's palm. "Oh f- _fuck_. Teddy. Fucking shit. Don't stop." 

Harry doesn't want to stop, but he's so hard he feels dizzy and he needs to be touched. He fumbles his jeans open and down, shimmies forward until - ah, fuck. His cock presses up against Nick's, a hot spark of pleasure, his blood rushing furiously. 

"Ted," Nick breathes out, and Harry pants into his collarbone, overwhelmed, hips starting to thrust up against Nick's belly and his fat cock, skin slipping messily against skin. "God. You're fuckin' useless." 

Nick laughs, low and warm, and reaches between them, wraps his big hand around both of their dicks. Harry whines, digs teeth into Nick's skin. 

"Ben-" 

"Feel so fucking good," Nick breathes. It's messy, clumsy, but Harry's already close, like Nick's got him on a hair trigger, ready to go off. "God, Teddy, your dick." 

"Wanna fuck you," Harry mumbles against Nick's neck, and Nick groans softly, hand moving faster. 

"Fuck, me too." 

"Come inside you-" 

" _Christ_ , please, yes," Nick chokes out. "Please." 

It makes Harry mental, the way he says that. _Please_. His hips jerk and he comes, after barely two minutes, spurting hot over Nick's hand and his dick. Nick whimpers low in his throat, twists his hand, and Harry feels the hot pulse of Nick's come. 

They breathe raggedly in tandem for a minute, foreheads together. 

Harry can't stop inhaling lungfuls of Nick's scent- grass and sweat and fruity hair product and come. It's making him hard again, too soon, a painful sensitive twitch in his lower belly. 

"H-Harry," Nick says, voice hitching on the word. "Harry, we're not-"

Harry kisses his mouth to shut him up, takes Nick by the front of his shirt and walks him back into the bedroom. 

\---

The second time they fuck is slower, more careful. Nick on his back, legs around Harry's waist, the sun setting outside. Nick's room is hushed and golden as Harry slides inside him. He's sunburnt on the top of his chest, pink skin under dark hair, and his eyelashes flutter shut when Harry bottoms out. 

He's so gorgeous when he's fucked. Harry tells him so, in a low voice that sounds unfamiliar to his own ears, and Nick's mouth curves up at the corners, breathing fast. 

"C'mon," he murmurs. "C'mon, c'mon, Ted, fuck me, wanna feel it-" and Harry can't resist that, can't deny Nick a single thing he wants. 

When he comes he's nearly sobbing with effort, breathless, and Nick's still begging him for more. It's the hardest Harry's ever worked during sex, and his vision goes white as he spills over into the condom. He slumps, body going loose, opens his eyes slowly to see Nick jerking himself off furiously, jaw clenched, until a moan rips out of his throat and he comes again, Harry's dick still inside him.

Harry watches him wide-eyed, body still wobbly with aftershocks, Nick's arse clenching almost-painfully around Harry's prick. 

"Ahh, shit," Nick says hoarsely, eyes closed, a flush high on his cheekbones. "Pull- pull out, Ted. Christ. C'mon." 

His voice is low, dreamy almost, and Harry watches him fearfully for a moment before he carefully slips out. 

Nick shivers, legs splaying open on the bed. He tucks a hand beneath his head, sighs slowly.  

Harry doesn't want to speak. Doesn't want to break the spell. 

Nick breaks it himself, though, when his eyes flutter open and he blinks up at Harry. 

And then the slow chill of recognition, the way his face falls. Harry feels a clench of nausea in his stomach, and he looks away, crossing his bare legs til he's sat pretzeled in the middle of the bed. 

"Shit," Nick says, roughly. "Shit."

Harry nods. 

Nick breathes out, unsteady and tense, and then he shoves himself upright, pulling a pillow over his stomach. 

"Least you used a condom this time," he says, letting out a numb laugh. 

Harry _hates_ that. He hates the way Nick sounds like he regrets it. He puts his face into the crook of his elbow, so Nick won't see how much he-

"Oh, Haz," Nick breathes. "Harry. Don't-" 

"I'm sorry," Harry chokes. 

"Fucking hell. Fuck, you don't need to be sorry. You don't." 

Harry feels Nick's arms slide around his shoulders, warm and solid. Nick presses a kiss against his shoulder. 

"You don't need to be sorry. I swear. I'm the one who keeps-" 

"No you're not," Harry mumbles. 

Nick pulls him closer. 

"I have no fucking clue what's going on," he whispers into Harry's ear. "I have no clue." 

"Me neither." 

Nick pulls back, eyes wide. "I'm going mad. Right? We're going mad?" 

Harry sticks his thumbnail in his mouth, gnaws on it anxiously. "I- I dunno. I don't think so." 

"Then why does it keep, like." Nick scrubs his hand over his face. "This is so fucked. I can't even-" 

"Just don't say we have to not see each other again," Harry says, grabbing at Nick's wrist. "Don't say that." 

"Going on tour anyway, aren't you?" Nick asks, sourly. 

Harry swallows hard. "I know, I just. Wasn't it hard? Not- not seeing each other? It was hard for me, like-"

"Hmm, you didn't seem too lonely, Haz," Nick drawls. "Harry Styles leaves party with mystery blonde-" 

"That wasn't a- we were just sleeping together, it wasn't-" 

" _We're_ just sleeping together," Nick snaps. 

Harry almost laughs. Nothing's funny, exactly, except - how can Nick even say that with a straight face? 

"No we're not."

Nick looks scared. He drops his gaze. 

"I don't want to talk about it," he says, low and firm. "The whole- thing." 

It's mental how Nick can do that, box things up and put them away in his mind. Harry's so _curious._ He's been thinking about it, since that morning after they fucked for the first time. He's been Googling. He's been having weird dreams, long detailed dreams he barely remembers in the morning, and Nick- Nick is in all of them. 

And Nick doesn't want to _talk_ about it. 

But- but Harry'll agree to anything if Nick doesn't throw him out again. 

"Fine," he says. "Fine, we don't have to talk about it." 

Nick nods, and runs a hand through his hair. 

"I've got to shower," he says. "Before work." 

Nick doesn't have work for about six hours, but Harry lets him go. 

**JANUARY, 1969**

Teddy hops up onto the counter, spreads his legs and lets Ben in. 

"Idiot," Ben says, softly, grasping Teddy's chin in one hand and tipping it up to see the cut on his lip, illuminated in soft golden lamplight. 

Teddy smiles wryly, and then yanks away when Ben presses an alcohol-soaked towel to the wound. 

" _Shit_ , Ben!" 

"Could get infected," Ben says, keeping the towel right there. Teddy's scowling, brows furrowed.

"Yeah, I dunno if the pig's nightstick was clean," he says, muffled behind the towel. 

Ben clucks in his throat, moves the cloth up to the scrape on Teddy's cheekbone. Teddy winces, shifting restlessly.

"You can't do this shit," he says, quietly. "You could get hurt next time, real hurt, Ted. You know that." 

Teddy doesn't say anything. Ben can feel him simmering, though, quiet and resentful the way he gets when they disagree. They've disagreed a lot more often lately.

"Teddy." 

"What?" 

Ben takes the towel away, dabs a bit of Vaseline onto the cut. "It's not smart. I know you want - I know you want to, like, change something, I get that, I do too-" 

"You don't get anything," Teddy says, and there's something hateful in his voice. Ben takes a step back, shaken. He tries to pretend he's not, running an unsteady hand through his hair. 

"Babe, I'm writing my fucking dissertation on political dissent, I know what the goddamn point of a protest is. But the way they do it-" 

"What?" Teddy says, harshly. "It's not nice enough for you? It freaks you out? Cuz that's the fucking point, Ben. It's about scaring people out of complacency." 

"Big words," Ben says, meanly, and Teddy glares at him. 

"You're an asshole." 

"Yeah, and you knew that already."

"Today felt - real. Okay? It felt real. We were out there, and we were fighting, and it was like - it wasn't sitting in fucking _classrooms_ , and talking about _theory_. We weren't like, oh, what does Proust think about the fucking war? What would-" 

"Proust died like forty years ago, so he probably doesn't think much about it in general-" 

Teddy lets out a frustrated breath. "Goddamnit, Ben. You know what I mean." 

Ben bites back a laugh. "I know. I know. I'm sorry." 

"We're so sheltered, on campus. We're like - children." 

"Teddy, you _are_ a child. You're a child. It's okay." 

"I'm not - people younger than me are fucking fighting and dying!" Teddy says, voice cracking with feeling. "For _nothing_! For fucking imperialism! And I'm doing fuck-all, reading textbooks!" 

Ben scrubs a hand through his hair again. "Jesus, Teddy, I know that, I'm not saying it's not- worthy, okay, I'm not. It's just. It's just dangerous." 

"That's the _point_." 

"Okay. I see that. I know. It's just, history's proven that radical movements are usually just a ripple in the pond. They flare and burn out-"

"I want to burn," Teddy says, voice shaking. He stares at Ben, and Ben's floored for a minute, by the heat in Teddy's eyes. 

"Ted-" 

"I want to fucking _destroy things_ ," Teddy says. He's breathing hard. "Because it's not right. Nothing's right. Children are dying. Bombs are fucking dropping, Ben. We could all die tomorrow." 

Ben swallows thickly. "I mean, the probability of that-" 

"Jesus, shut up about fucking probability," Teddy says with a crack in his voice, sliding off the counter into Ben's arms, pushing him back against the wall. 

He fists his hand in Ben's hair, kisses him, and Ben spreads his legs, tasting blood from Teddy's lips. He groans helplessly, tries to regain control, pulling at Teddy's long hair until Teddy tips his head back and looks at him with dark eyes. 

"Teddy-" 

"Burn with me," Teddy murmurs, before he drops to his knees, and Ben can't argue any longer, not with Teddy's hot slick mouth around him, swallowing him down. He can't. He knocks his head back against the wall, closes his eyes, lets himself feel it. Burning. Ben can burn. He'll do anything if Teddy keeps touching him like that.

**MAY, 2012**

And then self-control's out the fucking window, for good, and Harry couldn't be happier. He doesn't leave Nick's flat for two days, and by the end of the weekend his dick actually _hurts_. Harry's in a daze of happiness, paralyzed with sex, and he knows tour's coming but he can't think about it for more than a minute before Nick does something that sets Harry's brain on fire. 

They don't talk, that much. About the names they mumble to each other, when it's late or they're shagging. Always the same ones. They don't talk about the night Nick rolls out of bed before work and mutters, "Library," when Harry sleepily asks him where he's going. The half-second of hesitance every time Harry nearly forgets to grab a condom. The way they fuck like they've been doing it forever, Nick laughing on Harry's cock, Harry sucking him off and swallowing. 

He looks in the half-steamed mirror on his last night. Nick's singing off-key in the shower, and Harry looks at himself as he brushes his teeth. Stares at the shape of his own face, his familiar eyes. Everything's moving so quick it's hard for Harry to reach in, pick out one moment and pull it apart, figure out what the fuck's going on in his head. It's even harder when Nick refuses to bloody talk about it. 

Harry should probably be more freaked out. Not just about the- _thing_ , but about Nick, in general. Shagging a bloke. Sucking dick, and fucking arse, and wrapping his hand eagerly around the solid length of Nick's prick, weighty and hot in his hand. Feeling utterly at home with it. 

He's not, though. Freaked out. He leans down to spit in the sink, straightens up as the shower turns off. 

Nick steps out naked and dripping, grabbing for a towel and wrapping it around his waist. 

"Hiya, popstar," he says, grinning. 

"Hi," Harry says, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. He grins, shows off his clean teeth, and Nick laughs at him in the mirror, shoves him over with one hip. 

"What time're you leaving tomorrow?" he asks, patting cream under his eyes, tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips. 

The smile slips off Harry's face. "Uhh. Round noon." 

"Ready for tour, Haz? Gonna give those Aussies the proper boyband experience?" 

"Yeahh, ready," Harry mumbles. Nick gives him a questioning look in the mirror, and Harry ducks out of the en suite before Nick can ask him what's wrong. 

Cos nothing's wrong, right? Harry's going on tour, with four of his best mates, to places he's never even been before. He should be happy. He should be _ecstatic_. 

And he is. There's a greedy wriggling part of him that's so _ready_ to leave. He misses the crowds and the screaming, he misses the lights on his face. 

But the other part just wants Nick. 

\---

They fuck, that last morning. Slow, both of them sleepy and fumbly, Nick on his side with Harry spooned up behind him, rolling into him in deep slow thrusts. 

Harry nuzzles the back of Nick's neck before he comes, the feeling of his orgasm like a hot slow tug in the bottom of his stomach. 

"Christ," he mumbles, close, his breath short and fast. "Christ, I don't wanna leave you." 

"Don't leave me then," Nick chokes, his hand moving between his legs, stroking himself tight and fast. "Don't- don't leave me, Teddy, don't-" 

Harry grunts, sets his teeth into the meat of Nick's shoulder, feels the erratic clench around his dick as Nick whines and comes. 

They slip out of it when they've both gotten off. Harry nuzzles Nick's shoulder, kisses the start of his hair, and Nick sighs quietly. 

There's nothing to say. Harry has to leave. They both know it. 

He kisses Nick again, tipping his head back with a hand on Nick's throat and placing a sideways kiss on Nick's open mouth, and then he leaves Nick in bed and stumbles into the shower. 

That's it, then. 

**FEBRUARY, 1969**

Shitting - _fuck_ , that - _hurts_. Ben drops his head, lets out a pained breath, and Teddy fucks into him again, hard. They're both drunk, real drunk, but Ben feels sober, now, because of the pain. 

"Ted," he gasps, steadying himself on hands and knees. "Not so-" 

Teddy grunts, gripping Ben's shoulder with one hand for leverage. 

" _Ted_ -" 

Teddy thrusts again, and Ben chokes on his own breath, shuts his eyes and tries to breathe. He puts his hand on his dick, because that helps, when it hurts. The flesh is soft under his fingers. 

"Yeah, fuck," Ted mutters, voice low and hot, his thrusts speeding up like he's going to come. Ben wants him to come. "Yeah, god, fuck - feels so good-" 

Ben squeezes his eyes closed as Teddy tips over the edge. Feels the heat of it inside him, the release. Teddy stays there for a long minute, panting, his hand still tight on Ben's shoulder like a brand, burning into his skin. 

Eventually he pulls out, and Ben sinks onto the bed, turns onto his side with his back to Teddy. His chest feels tight and he has to reach up to press at his prickly eyes. He's not going to cry. He refuses. 

Teddy's breathing deep and slow next to him. Ben shuts his eyes, draws in a shaking breath. 

"You can't, like," he says into the quiet. "Just- just don't go so hard next time, okay?" 

Teddy's hand slides up Ben's bare side and Ben shudders instinctively. 

"Sorry," Teddy says, sounding distracted. 

Ben can't fucking cry. Christ, he wishes he hadn't gotten this drunk. His head's spinning even as he stays completely still. 

Teddy pats his hip, and takes his hand away. 

"There's a thing on Friday I think you should go to," he says. "At the university office." 

Ben sniffs in hard, reaches up to swipe discreetly at his eyes. "What is it?" 

"Protest about how much they pay the caf workers," Teddy says. "It's pretty fucked up. Figured you could bring your camera, maybe write a thing for the Observer-" 

Ben chokes a laugh. "Oh, so you don't actually care if _I_ come, as long as I write something about it." 

Teddy's quiet for a minute. "Well. Yeah, I guess. Doesn't have to be you, you could send Emma if you wanted-" 

Ben turns over to face him, ignoring the stab of pain between his legs as he moves. "So you're using me." 

"What the fuck?" Teddy says, brows furrowing. "Who gives a shit? It's not about you, it's about the workers-" 

"It's about me if you're asking me to use my position at the Observer to cover something my boyf- my - my friend wants me to write." Ben flushes hard. _Boyfriend_ , he almost said. Christ.

Teddy sits up. "We're trying to do something important here." 

"A lot of shit is important, Teddy!" 

"Why're you against the caf workers getting a fair fuckin' wage?" 

"I'm not against that," Ben snaps. "I'm against you asking me to do stuff because we're sleeping together." 

Teddy shakes his head, incredulous. "Jesus, you're selfish." 

Ben chokes. He has to be _fucking_ kidding. Teddy came inside him five fucking minutes ago and Ben's the selfish one. 

"This isn't about your fucking _ego_ ," Teddy says, his face harsh, eyes bright and burning. "Or about us having sex. It's about people's goddamn _lives_ , Ben, and you're gonna ignore that so you don't feel like I'm using you?" 

"I'm not - I didn't say I was gonna ignore it," Ben says, shoving himself up until he's sitting against the wall. His chest is clenching. "I'm just saying I don't like you using the-" 

"You keep saying that, _using_ ," Teddy says, voice dripping with disdain. "Like your paper is important. Like your ego is important. How fucking small-minded do you need to be to not see the bigger picture?" 

"I can see the bigger picture and still want you to not-" 

"Are you gonna cover it or not?" Teddy says, staring at him. 

Ben looks away, fumbles on the nightstand for his glasses. 

"Ben. You gonna be a selfish prick, or are you gonna try and actually do something for once?" 

"For _once_? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"When's the last time you got your hands dirty, Ben? When's the last time you talked politics somewhere other than the fucking student union?" 

"Oh, throwing rocks at the cops with a bunch of other rich kids going to school with Daddy's money is getting your _hands_ dirty, now-" 

"At least I do something!" Teddy's voice cracks. "You use their money to sit in a library all goddamn day!" 

"I don't use their fucking money at all, you asshole," Ben snaps. "I'm not the one going home every break and pretending I'm the good little college boy to mommy and daddy, all pure and innocent-" 

"Like you wouldn't go home in a _heartbeat_ if they fucking wanted you there," Teddy says, mean and low.

Ben feels it like a punch. He looks away, breathes out carefully. 

"Fuck you," he says, and his voice comes out hoarse. 

"I can't believe we're even - having this conversation. I can't believe we're _wasting time_ arguing when there's an opportunity I'm giving you to actually help someone and do some goddamn good-" 

"Oh, an opportunity!" Ben says, putting a hand to his heart. "Thank you ever so fucking much, Teddy! An opportunity, wow, you're so generous!" 

Teddy shudders. There's a silence. 

"You're a lost cause, man," Teddy says, sounding disgusted. 

"Yeah, you don't seem to mind putting your dick inside a lost cause," Ben spits back. 

"Not anymore," Teddy says, stumbling to his feet. 

"What happened to you?" Ben asks, shakily, as Teddy pulls his jeans on. "It's like I don't even know you anymore, Ted-" 

"Who cares?" Teddy turns to him, shaking his head. "Who honestly fucking cares? You think you ever knew me?" 

"I care about you," Ben says desperately, watching Teddy eye the door. "I care about- about this. You and me." 

"It's not _important_!" Teddy chokes out, voice rising to a whine. "How do you not get that?" 

"It's important to me." Ben can hear his voice break. Shit. Shit. No crying, that's the rule. "Ted, c'mon. Don't - don't leave, alright, we can talk about it-" 

"Sick of talking," Teddy mutters, pulling his shirt over his head. 

Ben clutches at the sheets, heart starting to pound. "Teddy-" 

Teddy's kicking his shoes on and doesn't answer. 

"I love you, okay?" Ben chokes out. It comes out heavy with meaning. He's never said that to anyone. Not - not like this. "I love you. Don't - don't leave." 

Teddy looks at him and Ben knows it won't end well. There's nothing _there,_ in Teddy's eyes. That spark is gone, from the first day they met, from the first time they kissed. There's something else now. 

"Teddy." 

"It doesn't matter," Teddy says, voice distant. "You know it doesn't matter, Ben. You're trying to distract yourself." 

"From what?" 

"From the end," Teddy says, with a queer small smile. "You're fucking blind, Ben. I see that now." 

"I'm in love with you." Shit, it's - he can't- Ben sobs, tries to cover it with a cough. He rubs his eyes, looks up blearily as Ted comes to kneel on the bed next to him. 

Teddy puts his hands on Ben's face, stroking his thumb over Ben's cheekbones. Ben goes very still, tries not to cry.

"That doesn't matter, Ben." 

"Yes it does." 

Teddy shakes his head, and it's so infuriating, suddenly, his smug knowing face and his stupid hands on Ben's stupid cheeks. Ben twists away, knocks Teddy off him.

"Get the fuck out, then," he says, voice thick. He wipes his eyes again, pushing up his glasses. "Get out if you don't feel the same way, you piece of shit." 

He puts his face into his knees. For a minute he thinks he feels Teddy next to him, moving closer, and then the bed dips as Teddy stands up. 

The door slams shut a minute later. Ben tips slowly over onto the bed, and lets himself cry. 

**MAY, 2012**

Harry steps down the back steps of the big house, peers across the field. Green grass waving, the golden tops of corn in the distance. The breeze is blowing soft and steady, and Harry can smell cowshit and hay. He inhales, shuts his eyes. 

When he opens them again he can see something in the grass, a little ways away from him. His mother's waiting for him inside but he walks toward it anyway, feet bare in the damp grass. 

It's a boulder. No, a cow, asleep in the grass, separated from the herd. No, a- 

Harry stops. There's someone down there, in the grass, all curled up. Dark hair, hidden face. There's someone lying there. The grass is taller now, and the sky's gone a queer gray, and Harry's breath catches hard in his throat as he fights his way through, shoves the stalks aside, scratchy and harsh against his skin. It's above his head now, and he feels trapped, only a few feet from the dark figure, but he can't - quite- 

His mother calls from the house, calls out his name, voice singing through the grass. 

"Teddy!" 

Harry stops. The person doesn't move. 

"Teddy, come inside!" 

Harry looks up at the sky, swirling clouds, the light gone purple and green. A twister on its way, maybe. They had one the year before that took three cows and half the barn. 

He hears his mother call, and he turns, feels a dark shadow cross his eye line, like someone else is- 

"Who's there?" he says. 

"Teddy!" his mother screams, sounding panicked, voice far away. "Teddy! Come back!" 

"Who's there!" Harry yells, and when he turns around again the body is gone and he feels hot breath on his neck and he- he- 

He jerks upright, heart hammering. 

"Haz?" someone mumbles. It's- it's Zayn, sprawled out next to him, crisp white hotel sheets twisted around his narrow hips, bare-chested. 

Harry just breathes out, shakily, peering around at the dim room. Suitcase, massive telly, sofa, desk. All familiar - or unfamiliar in a familiar way, like all the hotels they stay in. 

"You alright?" Zayn says, fumbling to pat Harry's thigh comfortingly, sounding half-asleep. 

"Fine," Harry says numbly, shoving his hair out of his face. "Weird dream." 

"Me too," Zayn murmurs, stretching luxuriously in the sheets, yawning. "C'mere, back to sleep." 

Harry lies back down, but he can't fall back asleep. Every time he gets close, he thinks of that shadow, that puff of air on he back of his neck, and he has to rouse himself, staring with gritty eyes into the darkness. Zayn snores softly next to him. 

He picks up his phone from the nightstand, squinting against the harsh light, and taps out a text to Nick before he can talk himself out of it. 

_Read this article yesterday about how sometimes children have really vivid memories of past lives. Different names and everything. They said its like reincarnation._

He hits Send, holds his breath as it goes, and then gingerly sets his phone down. There's no point waiting for a response, cos it's early in London and Nick doesn't get up early. 

Still, it takes him another hour to pass out, ears pricked for a text. When he falls asleep he sleeps hard and he doesn't dream. 

**MARCH, 1969**

“Oh, fuck, don’t look now,” Emma says, peering over Ben’s shoulder. Ben immediately twists around, peering across the dimly-lit bar. “Ben, I said don’t look!” 

It’s Teddy, cozied up to some girl with blonde hair and mile-long legs, both of them with drinks in hand. Teddy’s smiling, that soft wry fuck-me smile he used to turn on Ben, and he has a hand on her smooth pale thigh. The girl looks about two seconds from faceplanting into his lap. 

Ben turns back around, fumbles for his beer. 

“I said don’t look,” Emma says, quietly. 

“Yeah, well, I looked.” Ben tips the bottle back, lets it fizz down his throat. When he sets it down again he’s breathing hard. 

“He’s such a prick,” Emma mutters. 

Ben doesn’t say anything. His skin feels itchy, and he wants to get laid. He wants to do something stupid with a stranger, feel someone else’s hands on him. 

“Ben,” Emma says, warningly. “You have that look on your face.”

Ben forces a laugh. “What look?” 

“Like you’re about to be an idiot.” 

“Aw, thanks, babe, that’s really nice.” 

Emma huffs a laugh, steals the last sip of Ben’s beer. “Want another?” 

“Yes, please.” 

She pats his head, and stands up, makes her way to the bar. 

Ben sits back in his seat, glancing down at the first chapter draft of his dissertation he’d been reading through. It feels tired, all of a sudden. Boring. Like Ben’s got nothing original to say. All his research is derivative and his thesis is simplistic and he’s going to graduate from five years of grad school with fucking nothing to show for it. 

He scoots his chair around until he can see Teddy again, out of the corner of his eye. Teddy’s hair is falling in his face as he leans forward, forward, until - they’re kissing, him and the girl, a slow showy kiss, all lips and tongue. Ben watches, paralyzed. He can’t breathe. The fucking _bastard_. The fucking, fucking bastard. 

He turns around when Teddy breaks away, stares down at the paper in his hand, his chest tight. 

Emma sets a beer in front of him with a loud thunk, slides into her seat. 

“So,” she says briskly. “So he’s an asshole. So we move on.” 

“I have to go.” 

“Ben-” 

“I just really have to go. Sorry.” 

“He’s a sophomore, Ben. He’s a fucking stupid immature sophomore and he doesn’t deserve you.”

“It was stupid anyway,” Ben says, with a pained laugh. “He likes girls. He’s not the same as me.” 

Emma looks at him, eyes sad. She reaches out for his hand, and Ben yanks it away. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” 

“Breakfast at ten?” 

“Yeah, totally.” 

“Be careful.” 

“I’m always careful.” That’s a flat-out lie, but Ben doesn’t feel like telling the truth. 

He scrapes his chair back, shoving his papers into his bag, pointedly not looking at Teddy as he shoves the heavy door open and steps outside. 

The sidewalks are slick with black ice and he steps carefully, breath puffing out in white clouds. He’s about to turn down his street when he stops dead, lets out a long breath. 

He knows how it’ll go. He’ll go home, brush his teeth, go to bed alone. Maybe jerk off thinking about Teddy, about Teddy’s pretty face and his big dick and the time he crawled onto all fours and begged Ben to fuck him. Now Teddy’s kissing some girl, easy and eager, like it’s that fucking simple. 

Ben wishes it were that simple for him. He wishes he could turn his heart on and off like a faucet. 

He wishes it didn't need to be boys. 

He shakes himself, hoists his bag up one shoulder and turns in the opposite direction. 

The Library’s not his usual bar of choice. Too full of athletes, despite the name, and it’s all billiards and darts and sticky floors. _The paragon of masculinity_ , Emma said once, with her nose wrinkled. And if Ben knows something he’s not, it’s the paragon of masculinity. 

Just one beer. One beer, and maybe some lonely football player with an open mind and an eager dick. Ben wants to get laid, he wants to get touched. It burns through him recklessly as he shoves the door open, breathes in the scent of beer and smoke and men. 

He bellies up to the bar, looks sideways at his company. A big guy on his right, broad shoulders and a harsh face, his back against the bar as he talks to a group of his friends. Another boy on Ben’s left, a bit shorter and squatter, sipping a beer. Alone. 

“What’s that you’re drinking?” Ben asks, friendly-like, turning his back to the taller boy. 

The guy looks at him, and then at his beer, and then back at Ben. 

“Uhh,” he says. “Budweiser.”

“Oh, nice. Love that stuff. You know, I read that they had this marketing campaign, after Prohibition - because people had gotten used to the homemade shit and didn’t want to buy Bud anymore, so Budweiser let everyone drink for free for five days to, like, convert them back to their beer.”

“They let ‘em drink for free?” 

“Yeah. As like an ad campaign.” 

The guy wrinkles his nose. “Didn’t they lose money?” 

Ben tilts his head. Not the brightest bulb in the bunch, maybe. Oh well. Ben can work with that.

“They did, but like, it was worth it, because then people started-” Ben stops. “Anyway. I was gonna say, like. If you want something stronger. Can’t smoke this all on my own.” 

He flashes a spliff at the guy, under the bar. He’s testing his luck. Usually he’d wait longer, have a drink, chat him up, all casual. But Ben can’t stop picturing Teddy in his head, his mouth on that girl. 

The guy looks interested. 

“You serious?” 

“Yeah, man. Help me out.” 

The guy shrugs, and follows Ben outside. 

“I’m Matt,” the guy says, once they’re halfway through the joint, ashing it on the ground and leaning against the brick wall. The alley is freezing and smells like garbage, but beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Ben.” Ben takes the spliff, sucks on it hard. “What year are you?” 

“I’m a senior.” 

“Oh, cool.” 

“You?” 

“Ph.D student. Fourth-year.” 

Matt takes the joint back. “So you’re like real smart or whatever.” 

Ben snorts. “Nah, man. Just a masochist.” 

“A what?” 

“Uhh, never mind. Grad school’s overrated, is what I’m saying.” 

Matt’s ashing the joint and doesn’t answer. Ben watches him for a minute, swallows hard. 

He takes a hit, until the end of the joint’s burning cherry-red in the darkness, so tiny Ben’s fingers almost get singed. 

“Wanna kill it?” he asks, and Matt takes it back delicately between two thick fingers, gets one more hit and stubs it out, grinding his toe on the concrete. 

Ben leans back against the wall, and Matt does the same. 

“So,” Ben says. His heart’s starting to pound. It’s been a while since he’s tried this out. He was caught up in Teddy for so long, didn’t want anything else. “So you got a girlfriend?” 

Matt hums. “Nah. I was seeing this girl from Pensacola but she got back together with her boyfriend at home.” 

“That sucks.” 

“Yeah.” 

Ben lets out another breath, turns halfway til he’s facing Matt. 

“You looking for something?” he asks, very quietly. 

Matt peers at over him. “What?” 

“Like.” Ben lets out a breath. He touches Matt’s hand, resting loose against the wall. “We could…” 

“What the fuck,” Matt snaps, yanking his hand away. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Nothing,” Ben says quickly. “Nothing-” 

“I’m not a fucking pervert, man.” 

“I know!” 

“I’m not queer-” 

“I wasn’t trying to-” 

Matt shoves him against the wall, hands on Ben’s shoulders, and Ben goes stiff with terror. 

“Man, I wasn’t - I swear I wasn’t trying anything,” he says, voice cracking. “I swear-” 

“Fucking queer,” Matt spits out, before he takes a step back and hits Ben across the face, a hard right hook. The back of Ben’s head hits the brick wall and he chokes out a gasp of pain, his whole body tightening and tingling as it hits him. 

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t-” he manages to gasp, before Matt hits him again, in the mouth this time. He lets Ben go and Ben’s knees give out. A second later he’s on the ground, panting, blood wet and warm on his face, his mouth.

“Goddamn - pervert,” Matt says, giving Ben a kick in the stomach and then in the groin. Ben doubles up, clutching between his legs with both hands, letting out an awful animal sound at the agony of it. He can’t breathe. 

“Please,” he begs, spitting out blood so he won't choke. “Please, please-” 

“Don’t fucking come near me again, faggot,” Matt says, before he clears his throat. Ben feels a glob of spit land on his arm, and then he hears Matt’s footsteps pounding away from him, until the alley is quiet and empty. 

He lies there for a while, shaking in the cold, blood starting to freeze on his chin. He’s gonna get up. Any minute now. It’s just - his head’s throbbing, and his groin feels tender and swollen, and he can’t quite breathe yet. 

He sits up eventually, his hands trembling. Reaches up to wipe his face. His hand comes back smeared with blood. God-fucking-damnit. 

\---

The walk back home is long. He locks the door behind him, shivering into the warmth of his apartment. He drops his bag, makes it to the bathroom to assess the damage. His eye’ll be black tomorrow, and his nose and mouth are bleeding, a deep cut on his lip. He lifts his shirt. The bruise’ll be nasty, on his stomach. The skin is sensitive, throbbing to the touch, and when Ben pokes at it he whimpers involuntarily with pain. He wipes blood from his face with a damp hand towel, scrubs it with soap and hangs it up to dry. 

He eases himself down into bed, wincing. Turns the lamp out. 

It’s Teddy’s fault, somehow. Ben’s not sure how but he knows that it is. Teddy who can switch back and forth so easily, go from happily sucking Ben’s dick to kissing some girl in front of everyone. Teddy wants everything. _He’s_ the selfish one. Ben can’t fucking stand him. 

He chokes out a helpless sob against his pillow, lies there until he finally sinks into sleep. 

**JUNE, 2012**

“We should try it,” the girl says, laughing. Her name’s Jessica or Jennifer, but Harry’s too drunk to remember which. “My friend once got her fortune told here, and it was scary accurate. Like _crazy_. At least I _think_ it was here.” 

Niall laughs, taking a sip of his beer. Drinking right in plain sight, as they stumble along the tiny cobblestone street. God, Harry loves New Orleans. “I’m up for it. Maybe I’ll win the lottery.” 

“We already have, Niall,” Harry says grandly. “We’re two very lucky young men.” 

Niall rolls his eyes, shoves him away, and Harry nearly stumbles off the curb. Jennifer/Jessica catches him, giggling - keeps her hand on his arm as they keep walking. Harry doesn’t shake her off. She’s fit, exactly the type he usually goes for, and Nick hasn’t texted him back anyway. Six days and no bloody text.  

“Ooh, look, there it is!” she says, pointing, and Harry squints at the tiny storefront. _Madame X’s Pyschic Readings And Tarot Card Readings_ , the sign says - hand written on what looks like a plank of wood. 

“You’d think a psychic would know how to spell psychic,” Niall says, snorting. 

“Oh, stop,” Jennifer/Jessica says, laughing. “Let’s just, like, try it. I want to get my palm read.” 

“Is that still a thing?” Harry asks, as she drags him inside the shop. He goes quiet, suddenly, a hush muting his drunken buzz. “Whoa.” 

“This place is weird,” Niall whispers, just as the jeweled curtain at the back opens, and a woman comes out. She has black hair, jet-black, down to her waist. Bright blue eyes and a mess of silver necklaces, rings on her hands. 

“Hello,” she says. “Are you here for a reading?” 

“Yes, _please_ ,” Jennifer/Jessica says. 

“It’s one at a time, and you have to pay upfront.” 

“How much?” 

The woman points at a cardboard sign tacked up to the wall behind her, and Harry squints at it. Tarot card… Crystal ball… Aura readings…

“You go,” Jennifer/Jessica whispers in his ear. “I’m like freaked out. Tell me how it is.” 

“You’re the native New Orleaner, you’ve got this voodoo shite in your blood.” He’s maybe talking too loud. The woman is watching them quietly, eyes steady and unsettling. 

“I only moved here last year, Styles, all I have in my blood is East Coast WASPiness. Goooo.” 

Harry gives Niall a look - Niall’s so going to move in on her while Harry’s gone, Harry can already see it in his eyes - and Niall grins innocently back. 

Harry sighs, pays up, and follows the woman through the curtain. The room is small and hot and smells of sandalwood. 

“Take a seat, please,” she says softly. She has an accent Harry can’t quite place - Southern, but with a lilting twist to it, something soft and pleasant. 

Harry sits. 

“Sorry, I’m like, a bit drunk,” he says. “Spose that must, uhh, happen a lot, though?” 

She hums, and takes his hand in hers. 

“You going to read my palm?” Harry asks. Her hands are cold and dry. He shivers. 

“No,” she says, sounding distracted. “What’s your name?” 

“Harry. Harry Styles.” 

She hums again, no hint of recognition in her voice. “That’s one of them, yes.” 

Harry leans forward in the chair, watches her touch his hand, feeling out the pads of his palm with her small fingers like she’s giving him a massage. She pauses for a moment at his cross tattoo, then keeps going, letting out a strange sigh.  

“What?” 

She doesn’t look at him, head bent, hair falling in a dark curtain around her face. 

“You’re very old,” she says, voice low and quiet. 

“I’m - I’m eighteen.” 

She looks up at him suddenly, eyes flashing. Harry resists the urge to pull his hand away. 

“You’re very old,” she repeats. “Older than most things.” 

Harry’s throat is dry. 

“I’m actually the - the youngest,” he says. “In my, um, band-” 

“This one’s young, yes,” she says softly. “You chose a young one, you like young ones. But _you_ , you’re old. You can hear me.” 

She runs her hand up his arm and he twitches, hyperconscious of the weight and feel of his body for a long suspended moment. He shakes it off, shivering hard.

“Are you listening?” she whispers. 

Harry swallows. “Yes?” 

“Not you, child. _You_.” 

She holds his wrist in both hands, her thumbs over his pulse. 

“Yes,” she says, eyes falling shut. Harry can’t look away from her face. “Yes, there you are. Showing your face at last.” 

This is bullshit. Harry knows it’s bullshit but he’s still struck silent. 

“You,” she says. “Are old. Old and tired. You look for the other half, and you can’t catch it.” 

Her hands are still cold, wrapped around Harry’s arm. 

Harry can hear his own breath, shaky and loud. 

“You have to catch it,” she whispers. “You have to catch it or you’ll never rest.” 

“Catch what?” 

“The other half of you. The other side. You know it. You’ve seen it.” 

Harry thinks of Nick, helplessly, and the woman smiles, eyes fluttering. “ _Yes,_ there it is.” 

“I- what?” 

“You’re so close to it.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry’s voice sounds weak, breathless. 

“The only way through is to catch it and hold onto it,” she says. Her hands are trembling. “Or you’ll never rest.” 

“I don’t know what _it_ is,” Harry chokes out. 

“Yes you do. You’ve rubbed up against it, you’ve felt it. You’ve made yourself one, and now you’ve split again.” 

Harry’s arms are prickled with goosebumps and he feels unsteady, shockingly sober, a gnawing at the pit of his stomach. 

“Trace the path to the past and you’ll be able to rest,” she mumbles, sounding drowsy. “Make yourself one with it and you can sleep, finally. Sleep easy.” 

She holds his arm tighter, and then tilts her head to the side, eyes still closed. 

“Teddy,” she says, soft like she’s speaking to a child. “You’re so tired, my love.” 

“I’m not- that’s not my name,” Harry says thickly. Except isn’t it? It's what Nick calls him sometimes, but he's pretty sure that doesn't mean it's his name. It’s just - his head’s all dizzy and she keeps saying things, strange things that nestle up inside him and around him, make him confused. 

“You were in pain, Teddy,” the woman says, sweet and soft, stroking his skin with her fingertips. “But you don’t have to burn anymore. You can rest now. You can _rest_ -” 

As she says it Harry feels a hot rush up his arm, through his veins, and he yanks his hand away in shock. The tension in the room snaps, air rushing back in like water through a broken dam. 

The woman opens her eyes. She looks terrified, which just makes Harry more fucking terrified. 

“My name’s not - that,” Harry chokes out. “My name’s Harry.”

“Get out of my shop,” she says, fumbling for something on the table - pepper spray, Harry sees, brandished in front of her like a knife. Harry backs away, nearly knocking over his chair. “Get out. Get out.” 

“I didn’t -” 

“Get the hell out!” 

Harry stumbles through the curtain, stops dead, blinking like someone’s thrown the lights on full-blast. Niall looks up from where he’s perched in a rickety chair at the front of the shop. 

“Well?” he says, grinning. “What’s in your future, Haz?”

Harry’s breathing hard. He shoves the front door open, bells jingling, and steps onto the crowded street. Warm humid air, laughter, music from somewhere far-off. He draws in a long breath, and the door jingles again. 

“Mate,” Niall says from behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Jennifer/Jessica is peering at him, head tilted worriedly. “You alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Harry says. He buries his trembling hands in his pockets, forces his voice light and easy. The ground’s crooked and the buildings are swaying but he blinks a few times and everything settles. “Just - that place was creepy.” 

“What, did she make a pass at ya?” Niall says, laughing. “Thought she had that look about her.” 

Jennifer/Jessica laughs, and Harry does too, fake and loud. 

“Let’s get another drink,” he says. He looks at Niall, smiles, ruffles Niall’s hair. Niall’s eyebrow raises, because he can read Harry better than anyone, and Harry starts walking to hide the queasiness on his face. “C’mon! I want a daiquiri.” 

“Ooh, yes, I know the best place,” Jennifer/Jessica says, and Niall says, with a laugh, “Alright, mate, let’s do it.” 

**MARCH, 1969**

“Oh, god,” Emma mutters. “Asshole sophomore, incoming, 10 o’ clock.” 

Ben lifts his head from where he’s struggling to light a cigarette with his dying lighter. Teddy’s coming across the green towards them, no backpack or bag or books, even, just a few papers clutched in one hand and the crisp breeze blowing his hair across his face. 

“Hey,” Teddy says, as he gets closer. Emma makes a derisive sound, looks away, and Ben looks down at his cigarette again. Flicks the lighter furiously until it finally catches. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

Ben sucks hard on the cigarette, not making eye contact. “What a fucking shock.” 

Teddy’s brows furrow. He peers at Ben, like he’s confused. 

“Was there something you wanted?” Ben asks, waving him off, taking another drag off the cigarette. Emma’s standing there, staring Teddy down, foot tapping. 

“What happened to your eye?” Teddy asks, quietly. 

Ben’s stomach thrills with a furious rage, and his fist clenches reflexively. He knows how he looks - the bruise around his eye still a nasty purple-green, the cut on his bottom lip swollen a tender red. Emma made him put ice on his face for the entire rest of the weekend and he still looks like a first-grader’s art project.

“That’s none of your goddamn business.” 

“Did something happen? Are you- are you alright?” 

“Teddy,” Emma says, because she can never resist a fight. “Sweetheart. How ‘bout you fuck off now? Since we’re not really interested in your bullshit at the moment.”

He looks at her. “I’m not talking to you.” 

“Oh, you’re talking to me now?” Ben says, sarcastically, as Emma seethes. “Wow, Ted, what would your little new fucking friends say? Or, wait, I guess they don’t know what you used to do with me, do they.” 

Teddy swallows hard. Ben watches his throat move. 

“No, of course they don’t,” Ben says, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Cuz you’re all oh so fucking radical until someone finds out you're a cocksucker.” 

“You’re being an asshole.” 

Ben chokes out a rough laugh. “And you knew that already.” 

Teddy stands there for a long moment, staring at him. His jaw is clenched, green eyes bright and burning. 

“Fuck off,” Ben says lightly. “Don’t you have more important things to do? Saving the world, or whatever?" 

Teddy’s eyes narrow. “You’re not being fair.” 

Emma scoffs. 

“Fair?” Ben asks, his throat clenching hot. “ _Fair_? Get the hell away from me, Teddy.” 

“Ben-”

Ben drags in a mouthful of smoke, blows it out real slow, right in Teddy’s face. Teddy doesn’t move, just stands there with his eyes watering. 

“Jesus Christ,” Ben says, loudly. “Can’t you tell when you’re not wanted?” 

Teddy nods, a couple times, and pushes his hair out of his face, sniffs in hard. He turns around, takes off across the snow-covered grass, and Ben lets out a long shaking breath. 

Emma puts a hand on his shoulder. “He’s such a prick.” 

“Yeah.” He sucks at the last of his cigarette, tries not to let his voice wobble. “Let’s go inside, I’m fucking freezing.”

**JUNE, 2012**

Harry fucks a girl in Anaheim a couple weeks later, invites her up to his hotel room after the show and grips the headboard with both hands while she rides him. It's the first person he's slept with since they started the U.S. leg. _The first person since Nick_ , he thinks, and he has to shake off the weird twinge that comes with that thought. 

She leaves right after to meet her friend, gives him a pat on the arse and puts her number in his phone. He shuts the door behind her and feels suddenly and abruptly lonely. Usually he loves that feeling, the hours after a good shag, body still buzzing and his mind still running over the whole thing, replaying the best bits until he has to get himself off again. 

He flops onto the bed and rings Niall. 

"Yeah?" Niall says, mouth full. "Haz?" 

"Come over." 

"I'm eating." 

"Bring food, then." 

Niall groans. "Fine." 

"Bring a blunt, too." 

"Who is this? Is this Harry Styles? Constantly whinging on about sodding up his voice with smoke? How we're all gonna die? Ohh, how the tables have turned. How the turn tables!"  

Harry groans. "Just get over here, Niall." 

Niall hangs up, and Harry tosses his phone aside. 

An hour later Harry's pleasantly stoned and full of Niall's room-service chicken pasta. He's sprawled out on the bed with Niall next to him, scrolling lazily through his phone. 

"Niall?" Harry asks, staring up at the cream-colored ceiling. 

Niall hums in response. 

"You ever, um," Harry starts, and he falters. 

Niall looks over at him. "What?" 

"Nothing," Harry says slowly. "Just. Do you ever feel like you're - like you've got, like, a path. In front of you. And it was laid out a long time before you were even - even born, and you can't change it." 

Niall looks at him again, eyes narrowing. "The fuck does that mean?" 

Harry doesn't say anything. 

 _Old_ , that woman said, back in New Orleans. _Older than most things_. 

Harry shivers. 

"You mean like destiny or some shit?" Niall asks, and Harry shakes his head. Then nods. He puts his hand over his face. 

"Hey," he says. "I had sex with Nick." 

Niall pushes himself up on one elbow, eyes widening. " _What_?" 

"Yeah." 

"Nick Grimshaw?" 

"Yeah." 

"Holy shit." 

Harry huffs out a laugh. "Yeah." 

"I mean, it's not that I'm - like, that's cool, obviously, just. Are you - into blokes? I didn't know you were - into blokes." 

Harry swallows hard. 

"I'm into Nick," he says, and he almost laughs. Feels like an understatement. Being _into him_ doesn't really cover it, the way they fit together and the way they fuck. The feeling Harry's had since he left for tour, like he's off-balance, scattered. The way his whole body reacts when it touches Nick's.

"Wow. So it's a thing. Not just - you know. You being you." 

Harry glares at him. "What's that mean?" 

Niall puts his hands up. "Nothing! Nothing. Just mean it's not just a shag." 

Harry swallows hard. "Dunno. He might think so." 

Niall's face goes soft. "Shit, Haz." 

"I don't mean I'm like -" Harry stops, and gusts out a breath. "Just, d'you ever meet someone and feel like - like you've met them before? Like you already know things about them?" 

Niall looks at him, tilting his head. "That's romantic as fuck, mate." 

"Shut up." 

"Seriously, you sound kind of mental right now. Kindred souls and shit."

Souls. Harry chews his lip.

"You okay?" Niall asks, quieter. 

"I'm fine." 

"You've been a bit weird. Bit, like - off." 

Harry shuts his eyes. "I'm _fine_." 

Niall raises both hands. "Alright, alright. Sorry." 

He rolls onto his back, away from Harry, and Harry reaches over and pats Niall's chest a few times. 

"Sorry," he says contritely. "I'm just tired. Think that whole - psychic thing, like, threw me off." 

"What psychic thing?" 

"In New Orleans. With, uh, Jennifer." 

"Jessica?" 

Harry stifles a laugh. Damnit. "Yeah, her." 

"That weird lady? Haz, you were only in there for like five minutes." 

"Yeah, well, I- I dunno. Just freaked me out, I guess." 

"That's all bullshit." Niall's head pops up, and he peers at Harry. "You know that's all bullshit, right? I know you're kind of a hippie, but it's actually fake-" 

"I _know_ ," Harry mutters. 

"Go to sleep, Harry. You're too high for this." 

Harry's high is mostly gone, but he nods anyway, curls into Niall's side, pressing closer when Niall grumbles about it. 

"Night, Horan," he says, and Niall kisses the top of his head. 

Niall falls asleep fast, but Harry can't follow him. He untangles himself from Niall's grasp, rolls onto the other side of the bed, grabbing for his phone. 

He opens up a new message to Nick. 

_I feel weird. Feel like we need to talk. I'm back in three weeks and theres things I need to tell you. Please respond x_

As soon as he sends it he feels stupid. He sets the phone down, pulls a pillow over his face, then yanks it off when the phone buzzes in his hand. 

 _Cryptic much??? what day are you back?_ , is Nick's response. Harry swallows hard, checks his calendar. 

_Second week of July, Mon or Tues_

Nick's response comes a minute later. 

_Are you alright? x_

And what's the answer to that? Harry's not sure. He's not sick, or depressed, or hurt. He's just maybe insane. Maybe about to have a fucking breakdown and get put in hospital. Maybe, possibly, he's the reincarnated version of someone named Teddy who burned, once, a long time ago. 

Sure, Harry's doing _fine_.

_Idk. Just feel like we really need to talk about the thing._

He sends it, and prays Nick doesn't pretend not to know what he's talking about. 

Nick only says - _Fine we'll talk when you're back_

Harry lets out a shaky breath. 

 _Please just tell me it's not just me,_ he types, and he hesitates for a minute before he hits Send. 

Nick doesn't respond for five minutes. Then ten. Harry falls asleep waiting. 

He wakes up dry-mouthed and groggy in the middle of the night, with Niall snoring next to him, a pillow clutched to his chest. 

Nick responded, a good hour after Harry texted him. One text, two words. 

_it's not_

**APRIL, 1969**

Ben unlocks his mailbox and yanks out a wad of envelopes, laughing when a few spill to the ground. He always means to check his mail, and then a month goes by, and another, and - well. Here he is. Better late than never. He slides into a chair at the nearly-deserted student union, starts sorting. A bill, a tax return from his job at the radio station last year, paper slips about dances and football games and other shit Ben never goes to unless he’s taking photos. 

There’s a letter from his mom - probably for his birthday last month - and he sighs, opens it with his finger, the paper ripping jaggedly.

_Dear Benjamin,_

_Hope you have a great Birthday. Your Daddy is out of the hospital now and doing good. Will you be back here for the summer or are you staying out East. Jennas pregnant again and baby due in May so there might be no room here at the house unless James gets another job so they can move out._

_Send a letter back to your old lady. How is school? Love, Your Mother_

Ben reads it again, pockets the creased ten dollar bill tucked inside the envelope, and then shoves the letter back inside, sets it aside. 

Going back home. Yeah fucking right. The last summer Ben was home was ‘62, summer after his freshman year. He worked on his uncle’s farm, drank too much with his cousins, got the shit beaten out of him by his dear old dad. Came back to school with a mostly-healed broken jaw and a restless itch under his skin and he hasn’t been home since. They wouldn’t even recognize him by now. He’s lost thirty pounds, for a start. Cut his hair. Gotten a few tattoos, shit, his dad would beat him senseless for those. 

Years. It’s been years. Ben’s knee jiggles under the table, and he pulls the letter towards him again, sets his fingers over it. 

His mom’s not bad. Good woman. Took care of Ben in a vague impersonal way, never tried to understand him too much, looked the other way when he did something wrong. Took her fair share of beatings, too. 

Ben swallows hard, and tucks the envelope into his pocket next to the ten dollars. Maybe he'll write her back, for once. She'd probably die of shock.

The rest of his mail is boring. He reaches for the last envelope, freezes when he turns it over. 

 _Ben_ , it says, and then his box number. Nothing else. Campus mail, written in dark ink and a familiar hand. Ben fumbles the envelope open, hands shaking. 

Shit. Shit. He knew it. That’s Teddy’s writing, sprawling and messy. The letter is dated 4/11/69 - just yesterday. 

 _Dear Ben_ , it reads. 

_I have to say things to you and you wont listen to me when I try. I know you’re angry with me. I can feel that you’re angry and I’m angry too. I’m angry at this world because it doesnt make sense. I’m angry because we have all lost something that made us human. I’m angry because I have my eyes open._

_CHILDREN are dying_

_MEN are dying_

_WOMEN are dying_

_VIETS are dying_

_AMERICANS are dying_

_BLACKS are dying_

_WHITES are dying_

_Weve gone too far in the ways in which we kill our fellow men. We’re past the point of no return and the only thing to do is to burn first and burn bright. Thats all Im trying to do Ben. I just want to burn first. The only thing we can do is burn it down. Theres no fixing the system or negotiating or politics the way you always talk about. Its just fire. We have to start again from the ashes. Tear it down and build it up._

_Im not afraid to die. You shouldn’t be afraid to die. Death is a blessing in an inhuman world and it will come to all of us sooner than we think. Its just the first step. We need to fight and if we die in the fight that is a consequence of war. Im so angry Ben. I just want to burn and I want to take the world with me when I go. I want it to mean something._

_I dont know where we fit. I know that I’m in love with you. I know that. I know you love me. I dont know how that fits because I need to burn but:_

_I LOVE YOU_

_I LOVE YOU_

_I LOVE YOU_

_Not like a brother, like a lover. I love the way we fuck. I love when you kiss me. If that makes me sick then I am sick._

_No matter what happens to me. No matter if I get shot in the head tomorrow by some pig at the Capitol. If we all bite it next week from the Big Bomb. If were all little particles floating around in a nuclear wasteland. My particles and your particles are gonna find each other. You and me. Always always and always._

_I love you no matter what and don’t forget that and don’t forget me._

_Teddy._

Ben knocks his chair back, shoves the letter into his bag, his heart pounding. The capitol, Teddy wrote. They’ll all be there by now, rioting, burning, like they promised on the flyer that got shoved under Ben’s door last week, the one he crumpled up and threw in the trash. Jesus, Teddy, you fucking _idiot_. 

Ben throws the doors of the union open, clatters down the steps with his scarf flapping, the wind making his wet eyes sting. There’s still time. If he hurries. There's still time. 

**JULY, 2012**

Harry makes it to Shoreditch a full hour late, held up by paps outside his flat and a few giggling girls on the block outside the restaurant. 

"Ah, look who decided to show up!" Alexa calls, as Harry ducks sheepishly into the private back room. 

He pulls a face, leans down to kiss her on the cheek, and then Gillian. Nick's next, and Harry's heart flops pathetically when Nick presents his cheek for Harry's mouth. He smells the same, and his skin is smooth. 

"Hi," Harry says into his ear. "Sorry I'm late." 

"It's fine," Nick says stiffly. He won't look directly at Harry's face. "Good to see you." 

"Harry, don't even sit down, darling, we're going," Pixie says, draining her champagne. "This club, Rose something or other. What's it called, Grim? Rose something?" 

"The Rose Club," Nick says. "Annie's doing a set." 

"Sick," Harry says gamely, and he follows them out the door. 

He gets caught up in conversation with Aimee, climbs into the back of a cab with her and Gillian, leaving Nick in the front seat. 

"So tour was good?" Gillian says. 

"Yeah, it was really fun. I'm jetlagged, though." 

"I bet." 

"But you couldn't miss tonight, could you," Aimee says, patting his thigh. "Celebrating the big announcement." 

" _And_ his early birthday," Gillian says, reaching forward to pat Nick's shoulder. "So proud of my little Grimbles. Growing up so fast." 

"Shut it," Nick laughs. 

"Congratulations, Nick," Harry says, earnestly. He said it over text already, when the news came out. _Breakfast_. Harry's stomach had gone all quivery when he heard, half-excitement, half-paralyzing, selfish regret. Breakfast is _real_. It's a real job, and it's only in London, and it'll tie Nick down for years, right here. 

Harry's happy. He's really happy. There's just a nasty tiny part of him that wants Nick to follow him around the world like a lovesick puppy. Harry doesn't even understand himself, sometimes. 

"Thanks, popstar," Nick drawls. He sounds like he's had a few drinks already. Harry'll have to catch up. 

\---

He catches up quick, after two rounds of tequila shots at the bar with Pixie, and a double vodka soda that he gulps down while dancing to Annie's set. He ends up in a tiny VIP room, wedged into a booth with Gillian on his right and Nick on his left. 

"Oi, budge over, you bastards," Henry slurs, as he drops onto the edge of the booth, and Harry budges over right onto Nick's thigh, nearly falling into his lap. 

"Sorry," he says, and Nick- Nick must be really drunk, now, because he just giggles and puts an arm around Harry's shoulder, floppy and warm. 

Christ, it feels good. Just _that_. Just Nick's _arm_. Harry nestles into the crook of his neck before he can think twice, and Nick laughs again, loud and reasonless, presses his wet open mouth to Harry's temple. Harry tries not to shudder. 

"So, Nicholas," Henry calls, from the end of the bench. "You ready for that 5:30 AM wake-up call?" 

"Worse than that, isn't it, Grims?" Gillian says. "5:15, Fincham said he used to wake up. And that's only when he doesn't need a shower." 

"Nick's so gonna miss work," Pixie says, laughing into her drink. "God, he already turns up late to nighttime, imagine him in the morning!" 

"I- I think he'll be amazin'," Harry says, the words coming out thick, and everyone laughs. 

Nick squeezes him tighter. " _Thank_ you, Teddy," he says grandly. "All of you nonbelievers can fuck right off, cos I-" 

"Hang on," Henry says, leaning over to look at them both with one eyebrow raised, mouth starting to curve up. "What'd you just call him?" 

"Teddy," Pixie says, breaking into laughter. "Oh my god, is that like some kinky sex thing? Is he your _teddy bear_ , Grim?" 

Nick's gone stiff next to him, and Harry can feel him holding his breath. Everyone's laughing but Harry's scared anyway, a cold wash of fear down his spine.

"Teddyyy," Henry coos, and Pixie repeats it, sniggering to herself. Harry's stomach feels like it's about to twist itself right out of his skin. There's something impossibly humiliating about it, Henry's smug face and Pixie's cheeks flushed pink with amusement. He looks down at the table, cracked solid wood, sticky with spilled drink. His hands are clenched in his lap.

"Shut up," Aimee says lazily, stirring her drink. "Hens, I know for a fact David calls you sweetcheeks, which is infinitely more disturbing than-" 

"Hey, that's _private information_ ," Henry whines, and Harry forces out a laugh, because everyone else is. 

He elbows Nick in the side, and Nick breathes out a laugh, light and fake. It feels like a near miss, stumbling off the train tracks moments before a collision. 

Gillian says something quiet and everyone breaks into renewed laughter. Harry lets the conversation wash over him, reaches under the table and fumbles blindly for Nick's hand. 

Nick pulls away. 

\---

They split a cab back, just the two of them. 

"You said we could talk, when I got back," Harry says, after five minutes of excruciating silence. He's still quite drunk, and Nick keeps swaying in his seat, looking ill. 

"Not now," Nick says absently. 

"Nick, you _said_ -" 

"Not bloody _now_ , Te-" 

He stops himself, letting out a breath through gritted teeth. "Harry." 

"You thought it'd be over by now, didn't you?" Harry asks softly. "Thought you were safe." 

"Harry-" 

"Not talking about it isn't gonna make it go away." 

Nick just lets out a harsh laugh, and looks pointedly out the window. Harry stares at him. 

"Nick-" 

"Haz," Nick says back, cutting him off. "P-please, alright? Please." 

His voice breaks. 

Harry swallows down the mean shit that threatens to spill out. Shit about how Nick's always been like this, scared of the truth. Always wanted to let things go instead of talking about them. 

But he's tired, and Nick's tired, and it's been months. He undoes his seatbelt and crawls into Nick's lap, the way he wanted to back in the club. 

Nick grips his hips automatically, sighs against Harry's tongue as Harry kisses him open-mouthed. 

"Harry-" 

"Shh," Harry mumbles, kissing Nick's slick bottom lip. "Thought you didn't wanna talk." 

Nick _hmph_ s against his mouth, sounding indignant, but he shuts up. 

**APRIL, 1969**

"Stay fucking still!" the cop barks at Teddy, and Teddy does, blood running into his eyes, already stinging from tear gas. He lies on his stomach and he stays still, seething with hate, and then he hears - "Teddy!" 

And then - so quick Teddy barely remembers it later - he sees Ben drop to his knees, scarf over his mouth, his dark eyes huge with fear. He's right there, he's alive, he's terrified, and then five seconds later there's a rat-a-tat of gunfire and Ben's slumping to the ground. 

No. _No_. Teddy lunges at him, rolls him over. Teddy's screaming something, and the cops are screaming back, and none of it matters because Ben's bleeding, out his shirt and his arm and his mouth, and his eyes are going faraway. 

"No," Teddy moans, pressing his palm over the barely visible hole in Ben's chest, but there's another in his belly, and there's blood on Teddy's hands, hot and horrible and wet between his fingers. "No, no, no, Ben, fuck, no, please-" 

Ben sees him all of a sudden, his eyes sharpening, and his mouth moves to form a word. Teddy's sobbing so hard he's shaking with it, which is bad because it shakes Ben, and Ben needs to lie still. Ben needs to just lie still and get to a hospital and he'll be alright. 

Ben frowns, and says, raspy, "Teddy." A bubble of blood comes out of his mouth, and Teddy whimpers in fear. There's a cop at Teddy's back, and Teddy shoves him away with one hand. Amazingly, he goes. 

"You're gonna be okay," Teddy promises him, his eyes blurry with tears. He puts his hands on Ben's face, his cheeks, trembling against his skin. "Hold on, okay? Hold on. Hold on, baby, it's okay, hold on-" 

Ben's mouth twists up into a smile and he says again, in a soft exhale, "Teddy."

Teddy drops his head, his chest shaking in a sob, because it wasn't meant to be Ben. It was never meant to be Ben. Ben's too fucking good for this. Ben's too good for this whole entire fucking shitty messed-up world, and he was never supposed to fucking be here. 

"Alright," a cop says gruffly, grabbing Teddy's arm. "Alright, you're going with us-" 

"Fuck no!" Teddy spits, scrabbling for Ben's arm, screaming when they start to drag him off. "No, fuck no! No! Ben! _Ben!_ "

But Ben's not moving, not breathing at all, and his eyes are open and glazed and unseeing, dark blood spilling from the side of his mouth. Teddy stares at his face as he's pulled away. 

Ben was never meant to be here. 

Teddy's in love, and Ben's gone.

It was never meant to happen like this. 

**JULY, 2012**

Harry's half asleep the next night when his vision washes over with red and then he sees Nick's face. His eyes glazed, not breathing, blood dripping from the side of his mouth. Blank.

Harry sits upright fast, letting out a rough breath. He can't stop doing that, picturing sick things happening. Seeing them so vividly in his head, like a film.  

Nick's dozing off next to him, fucked-out from their mid-afternoon shag, but he wakes up, blinks blearily up at Harry. 

"You alright, Haz?" he mumbles. 

Harry shakes his head, slowly, and Nick opens his eyes all the way, puts a hand on Harry's naked thigh. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Just- just." Harry scrubs a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky sigh. "I dunno. I just keep - thinking of bad stuff." 

Nick peers up at him. 

"What do you mean," he says, sounding careful. 

"About - you know. Us. Before." 

Nick huffs a tight sigh, turns over until his back's to Harry. "Harry, I said I don't want to talk about that shit." 

"I keep remembering really bad stuff," Harry whispers. 

" _Harry_." 

"Nick," Harry says right back. His voice wobbles. "Nick. I think you died." 

Nick's perfectly still for a moment, and then he turns over, sits up until his knees are knocking Harry's, both of them cross-legged. 

"Alright. Not that I'm entertaining your- weird theory. But if it were true, we both would've died. Right? Else we wouldn't, like, be here. We died, and then - you know, hypothetically, the souls, or whatever - sort of transferred over." 

Harry nods, sticking his thumbnail into his mouth to gnaw at. 

"I know," he says. "It's just-you. You die before me. Like a lot before me." 

Nick's nose wrinkles. "What does that - what do you mean?" 

Harry ducks his head, presses his hand to his eyes. 

"Harry, c'mon." 

"I just. I think you die, I think I, like, watch you die, maybe," Harry says, shaky and thick, and then he's crying, just a single harsh sob. He wipes his nose, sucks in a deep breath. "Fuck, fuck. Sorry." 

Nick puts an arm around his shoulders, warm and heavy. 

"It's alright, love," he says weakly.

"And it's my fault," Harry mumbles. "I dunno how but it is." 

"Oh- god, Harry. You can't do this. I- I know something weird's going on, but you can't start blaming yourself-" 

"You don't remember?" Harry chokes out, lifting his gaze. Nick catches his eye and then looks away. Harry watches his throat bob in a swallow. 

"No," he says. "I don't remember anything." 

"That's - you're lying." 

Nick lets out a strangled laugh. "Haz, no I'm not." 

"Yes you are. You think I don't know when you're lying? You lied about the scarf I brought you from America; you don't like it. You lied about not being bothered that I was late last night. You were bothered." 

"Harry-" 

"You called me Teddy again last night. Don't bloody pretend you didn't-" 

"Harry!"

"You've dreamt of it, haven't you?" 

Nick's breath goes shuddery. He looks down. 

"I don't know what the fuck I'm dreaming," he says, low. 

"Me neither, Nick. But it's - something. And then what that woman said in New Orleans-" 

"Jesus, not the fucking psychic again." 

"The ironic thing is, it's so like him to not believe what's happening," Harry says, and he watches it land, watches Nick look at him, eyes wide and scared. 

Harry stares right back. 

"Ben wouldn't have believed it either," he says, voice soft and deliberate, and Nick twists away, climbs out of bed, yanking up his boxers. 

"Don't," he says, voice rough. "Don't." 

"Why are you so bloody scared?" 

"Why aren't _you_?" Nick snaps back. 

"I dunno. Because it's part of us? They're part of us?" 

Nick lets out a loud breath. "I need to get ready for work." 

Harry watches him disappear into the toilet, and flops back down into bed, turning over to press his face into the pillow. 

**\---**

Pixie throws a party at hers, two weeks later, and they both drag themselves out of bed to attend.

"Here," Nick says, as Harry slips into the kitchen after taking a wee, shaking his damp hands. Nick's in one of Harry's button-downs and his hair's done up high and Harry wants to kiss him. He can't, though, cos the party's full of people who don't need to know that Nick Grimshaw and Harry Styles are the kind of mates who kiss on the mouth. "Made you a drink." 

"Cheers." Harry takes it, takes a sip, wincing hard. "Shit, Nick. This is bloody lethal." 

Nick looks up from his phone, and - oh. His eyes are blurry, glazed over. Christ, it's barely eleven, and Nick looks about one strong wind from keeling over.

"Jesus, Grim, are you alright?" 

"I'm fine," Nick says, waving a hand in the air. 

"You're pissed." 

Nick looks up at him, eyes narrowed. "I'm _fine_." 

"Ooh, if it isn't Teddy," Pixie says, giggling tipsily as she stumbles towards them, drink in hand. "Little teddy bear and his big bad master." 

Harry rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh, but Nick says, "Shut the fuck up, Pix." 

Pixie's eyebrows knit together. "What?" 

"Shut. The fuck. _up_ ," Nick says, enunciating every word, mean and sharp. 

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" Pixie snaps. 

"He's pissed," Harry puts in, swallowing uncomfortably. 

"I'm _fine_ ," Nick spits. "Just sick of you taking the mick when Harry and I aren't even a thing. It's getting old." 

Harry looks at him, blindsided. 

"Oh my _god_ , Grim, you're really picking now to do one of your commitment things?" Pixie says, voice icy. "How classy. Break it to him in front of everyone." 

"Oh sod off, Pix," Nick says sharply, before he turns and shoves his way out of the room. 

Harry exhales slowly, eyes wide, and Pixie turns to him. 

"He's an idiot," she says, jaw clenched. "No idea how you put up with him." 

Harry just fumbles for a sip of his drink, and Pixie turns away, ducking out of the kitchen. Harry hears a loud harsh peal of her laughter a moment later, from the living room. 

He stands there for a minute, hand trembling around his glass, before he sets it down and makes his way out. 

\---

Nick's not in the first floor toilet, and he's not in the bedroom where Harry walks in on some bloke getting a blowjob, and he's not in the first bedroom upstairs. 

The toilet in the hallway is locked, and Harry knocks wearily on the door. 

"Hello?" 

"Occupied!" a voice calls, slurred and familiar. 

Harry sighs. "Nick, lemme in." 

There's a long silence, and then the door creaks open. 

Nick staggers back to lean against the opposite wall, as Harry carefully locks the door behind him. 

"What's your bloody problem?" Harry asks, after a taut silence. "She was only joking, you didn't have to get so-" 

"It's not a joke," Nick snaps, before he puts a hand over his face. 

"I know it's - I know it's not. But she doesn't-" 

"It's not a joke," Nick repeats, voice dissolving. "Oh god. It's not a bloody joke. It's - it's so-" 

He stops, and Harry watches in horror as he slowly slides down the wall to sit on the floor, knees buckling. 

"Nick-" 

"God," Nick chokes into his palm. "God, Harry. I'm so fucking sick of this. I'm so- I'm so tired of this." 

Harry's heart clenches. "Of what?" 

Nick drags in a loud breath against his hand, and then scrubs at his nose, looks up bleary-eyed. 

"I remember," he says, plain and small. "I - I remember, alright? You- you got me. I fucking remember." 

Harry stares at him, scared. 

"I remember _you_ ," Nick says acidly. "And _me._ I remember all this shit I don't want." 

Harry nods. 

"His dad-" Nick starts, and coughs into the crook of his elbow. "His dad beat him. You knew that? Fucking kicked the shit out of him. Since he was a teenager." 

Harry's throat clenches hard. He fumbles behind him to check the door is locked. The party's still going strong, a dull roar of voices downstairs. 

"I- I knew they weren't - close, I mean-" 

"Yeah, that's what I- that's- that's what he told you, innit," Nick says, shuddering at the slip of tongue. " _We weren't close_." 

His voice is thick with scorn. 

"I fucking hate this," he says, putting his head down again, against his knees. "God. I hate this. It just keeps bloody coming." 

"I know." Harry sniffles. 

"We were dirt fuckin' poor, too," Nick says, with a sour laugh. "Fucking white-trash cousin-fucking hicks. He never told anyone that. Faked it pretty good. That New York accent, god, such bullshit." 

"Nick…" 

"He broke my jaw," Nick mumbles against his skin. "Summer after my freshman year. Never went home after that." 

Harry's stomach tightens. Nick _has_ been remembering. That's more detail than Harry's ever gotten, at least outside a dream, and he never knows how much to trust his dreams anyway. "Jesus, Nick." 

" _His_ jaw," Nick says thickly. "God, fuck. His." 

Harry doesn't know what to say. He breathes out slowly, and Nick looks up at him, his eyes rimmed with red. 

"What is this," he says, flat and hopeless. "I don't get it." 

"I don't get it either, Nick. I don't know why it's-"

"I'm so fucked up," Nick mutters. "I'm actually mental. I'm mad. Aimee wants me to see a doctor." 

"Aimee knows?" 

"She knows I've been - having weird, like, dreams. Flashbacks and shite. She doesn't know how- how detailed it is." 

"Does she know about me?" 

"No," Nick says, eyes narrowing. "I wouldn't- I wouldn't talk about you like that, Harry."

Harry nods, biting his lip.  

"I went up North last weekend and - and I couldn't even fucking look at my dad," Nick mumbles. "I couldn't."

Harry shivers. 

"It's so irrational," Nick says, letting out a wobbly laugh. "It feels so _real_ , though, _fuck_. S'pose it always does, to mad people." 

He breathes out slowly. 

"Have you tried to look for him?" Harry asks, low. 

"What?"

"Like- I've tried. Old - old newspapers and everything. But I can't, when like - when I can't remember the details." 

Nick shudders. 

"Why would you do that?" he whispers. 

"It could help, if we know- if we know about who we were." 

"No, that wouldn't fucking help." Nick scrubs a wrist over his eyes. "It'll help if I get my bloody brain wiped. I need a fucking lobotomy." 

"Grim." 

"I don't wanna know any more about him," Nick mutters. "I know enough." 

"And what if it doesn't go away?" Harry asks, jaw tightening. It's just - he's in this too. He's here too, and Nick's acting like he's alone, and that's the whole fucking _point_. They're not alone. Two halves. 

Nick just peers at him balefully. 

"What if it never goes away?" Harry says, louder. "What, are you just gonna pretend it's not happening?"

"Harry-" 

"Stop being so fucking scared!" Harry shouts, and his voice breaks, suddenly close to sobbing. He swallows hard. "Jesus, Nick, we're - we're s'posed to do this together." 

"Do _what_?" 

"Figure it out!" Harry knows he sounds mental, but he can't stop. There's something hot rising in his chest. "Figure out who we are!" 

Nick opens his mouth indignantly, and there's a heavy pounding at the door. 

"Oi, lads, I need to piss," calls a girl's voice, slurred and loud. "Stop shagging and get the hell out."

Harry lets out a shaky breath, offers a hand to help Nick up off the floor. Nick hesitates, and then reaches out to take it. 

**JUNE, 1969**

There's a funeral, but it's in Iowa. 

Ben's cremated and sent home in a box and Teddy doesn't do anything. Can't do anything. He only knows because Emma tells him. She can barely look at him, just sucks on a cigarette and tells him in a slow flat voice, blowing smoke in his face. 

Teddy doesn't blame her, not one bit. 

Ben's gone, and Teddy keeps going. A month later he's in a basement of a church in New York, reading a poorly-written manual and building a bomb that'll be planted in a municipal city center in two weeks. Teddy's awful at the protests now- he used to be front and center, he used to take tear gas with the best of them. It made him feel good; alive, sparking all over, like he was slowly chipping away at the unhappy fact of his birth and his upper-middle-class upbringing. 

That's what Ben always said, at least. _I get it, the middle-class guilt is strong_ , he'd laugh, blowing smoke out the window of his bedroom, Teddy sitting there naked and annoyed at Ben not taking him seriously. _You don't actually have to stop bathing, though_. 

Teddy was so fucking mad, that night, but now it just feels- hollow. His heart hurts. 

He can't handle protests now, he can't be there.

But he can do this. 

He can sit in a basement and build a bomb. 

His hands shake sometimes, and he stops for a cigarette every half hour, sits at the foot of the basement stairs and sucks hard. 

Every time he closes his eyes he sees Ben's slack unmoving face, so he stops doing that. 

\---

One night he's out to eat with a couple people, in some dingy basement on the Lower East Side that sells inedible Russian food and great weed under the counter. 

He's going to the bar for a refill when he sees a familiar head of dark hair nearly out the door, and his heart clenches. He makes his way through the crowded room, and - yeah, that's Emma. 

"Emma!" he calls, and when she sees who it is she starts pushing her way out harder. "Emma- shit, wait." 

He catches up with her right as they spill onto the sidewalk, the night cool and misty. She's clutching a cigarette and glaring at him. 

"What the hell do you want?" 

"Wait," Teddy gasps. "Hey. I - just. I haven't seen you in- in a long time." 

"Shocking," Emma breathes, sucking on the cigarette. "What the hell do you _want_?" 

"I just wanted to see you," Teddy says, feeling a little sick, gulping in fresh air. "And just- see how. How you were doing." 

"Oh, I'm _great_ ," she drawls. "And you seem like you're doing just fucking fine." 

"I'm - no, I'm not," Teddy says, small, and she cuts him off. 

"Listen, I don't see why you think I'd want to talk to you." 

"I just- I just. There's no one I can - talk to. Okay? About Ben." 

"Don't say his fucking name," Emma snaps, voice going thick. "You don't deserve that, not when you're the reason he's-" 

She stops, takes a hard drag off the cigarette, her eyes glassy. 

"How's it fucking feel?" she says, mean and tight. "Knowing that you're why he's gone?" 

Teddy is sweating at his temples and his hands are shaking. They've been doing that lately. 

"I'm sorry," he says, his tongue thick in his mouth. "I'm s- sorry." 

"Doesn't bring him back, does it?" she says, swiping at her eyes with one hand, fiercely. "Fuck your fucking apologies." 

"I just- I never, I never never meant for him to be there," Teddy stammers, his eyes hot. He wipes at them. "I just- please, please, okay, no one- I- I didn't want-" 

She stares at him, face tight and jaw clenched like she's keeping herself from sobbing by sheer will. Teddy knows the feeling. 

"Please," he says, low. He's begging. He doesn't know what for. The only thing he wants is Ben back, Ben safe and smiling at him over a bottle of beer, Ben stroking his hair in bed and sucking his dick. 

It's never- Ben's never coming back. Teddy knows, but it still hits him like a physical thing sometimes, a punch to the gut. 

"Please," he repeats, starting to cry, helplessly. His chest is clenching painfully. Shit. " _Please_ -" 

Emma doesn't touch him. She was never that kind of person. 

"He loved you," she says, though, short and clipped and almost unwilling. "I read that fucking - note you gave him. It was- it was in his pocket, they gave me all his stuff, I read what you said to him." 

Her voice cracks, and she drags in a rough breath. 

"He was so stupidly fucking obsessed with you," she says bitterly. "God. I always told him you weren't worth it, but he wanted you anyway."

"I'm so sorry," he chokes out. "Don't- don't worry, okay, I'm going to- I'm gonna, like-" 

He stops, because he doesn't know how to say this. Doesn't know how to tell her that he knows exactly how many days he has left. 

"I'll see him soon, real soon," he says, feeling a smile curve his mouth up at the idea, his eyes still leaking. "Okay?"

She looks at him carefully, tilting her head to one side. 

"Oh, you think that's original?" she says, softly. "Think I haven't wanted to fucking kill myself too? He was my best friend. He was the only person I fucking cared about and he's gone." 

Teddy feels flayed open, exposed, and he still can't stop fucking crying. It's the first he's ever said about it, and it's to someone who can't stand him. 

"Be fucking _better_ ," Emma hisses, leaning towards him. "Stay alive. Honor him. It's the goddamn easy thing to do, to kill yourself, you stupid asshole." 

"It's not - it's not just me, okay, it's about - everything else," Teddy says, voice shaking. "It's about the bigger picture." 

"The bigger picture," she says, condescending. "Like your stupid fucking riot that didn't get shit done except how it killed my best friend?" 

"That wasn't supposed to happen." 

"Stay alive," Emma says, shaking her head. "I know exactly how stupid Ben would think you were, if he were here." 

"He's not here," Teddy bites out. His hands are in fists. 

"Live for him, then. Live _for him_ ," she says, low in her throat, and then she's sobbing, a quick harsh sound. She sucks it in fast, jaw clenching. "You're not going to fucking see him if you off yourself, anyway. Haven't you heard, kid? God is dead." 

She turns away, pulling another cigarette out of her purse, and walks off. 

Teddy doesn't follow, but he watches her til she turns around the corner. His body hurts, and his heart hurts, and he wants Ben.

He goes back inside. He sits down, he eats. 

 _Live for him, then_. 

It keeps going through his head. 

There are these letters in his room, back at the apartment. One to Alice, one to his mom, one to his dad. There are letters, and he has a date, and he's ready - he's ready. He hurts all the time, and he's ready. 

 _Live for him_. 

A week later he calls the plan off. Luke looks almost relieved, slapping Teddy on the back and saying, "Right on, man. No need. We'll - we'll work something else out, yeah?"

Teddy nods, shakily, and goes into his room and takes the letters out. 

He doesn't burn them. He reads them, and then he folds them up and sticks them under his pillow. 

\---

A week later he's in the basement, hair held out of his face with his very oldest scarf. It's nearly July, and the room is stiflingly hot. Sweat keeps dripping into his eyes. 

Alice called the night before, sounding far away and worried for him. 

"You're coming home for the Fourth, aren't you?" she'd said. "Mom really wants to see you. I mean, I know you're like super into all that political stuff right now, but you can still celebrate the Fourth of July, right?" 

"Don't have money for a train ticket," he said, sucking on a cigarette and closing his eyes. The apartment phone was in the first-floor hallway, and he could hear people clattering around above him. "And I- I can't, anyway. I'm working." 

"Yeah, sure," she said, doubtfully, and there was a pause. 

"How's, um. How's Ben?" she had asked, very quietly, and Teddy had nearly doubled over and thrown up. Of course she didn't know. He went completely AWOL after Ben's death, didn't call, didn't send letters, and they'd only started talking again a few weeks ago. 

"Ben," he said, clenching his eyes shut, debating whether or not to lie. He never should have told her about that. Even if he didn't say outright they were fucking, she - she knew things. "Oh. Ben." 

"Are you still, like. Good friends with him?" 

She sounded carefully tolerant. 

"No," Teddy said, voice cracking. "No, he actually - he actually, um, he passed away. He d-died. Um. 'Bout two months ago." 

There was a silence. 

"What?" Alice whispered. "Ben died?" 

"Yeah," Teddy said, miserable, voice rough. He stamped the cigarette out under one foot on the concrete floor, dug out another and lit it. "He- he was, um, he was part of a protest at the capitol. He got shot by the cops." 

"Oh god, no," Alice said, voice shaking. "No. Oh, hell. I'm so sorry, Teddy. I'm so sorry." 

"Yeah," Teddy whispered. He coughed. "Yeah. Yeah." 

"How could you not tell me? Two  _months_ ago? I- when? He - I didn't hear!" 

"I just, I didn't want to, like - we weren't, um - friends by then, anyway," Teddy said, leaning back against the wall. "And I - I don't know." 

"God, I'm so sorry," Alice said unsteadily. "Oh god. His poor family." 

"Like they gave a shit about him," Teddy bit out. 

"I'm sure they didn't want him _dead_ , Teddy." 

"They don't care," he snapped, and Alice made a disapproving sound, because she hates when he's angry, and the conversation ended shortly thereafter. 

He goes over it in his head as he works, squinting through sweat-stinging eyes at the manual set on the workbench next to him. 

The bomb they're working on is nearly finished. It's a nasty one, Teddy thinks absently, as he reaches for a handful of nails. It wasn't the one he was planning to wear into the courthouse. It's bigger, non-portable, filled with shrapnel and nearly ready to detonate. It'll do some fucking damage. Wake a few people up.

It's strange, sometimes, the work they're doing. Being so close to death and yet, like. Safe from it. Like having a tiger for a pet, carefully-caged but hungry. 

Ben wanted a dog. He told Teddy when they were drunk, one night, sitting with their knees drawn up on Ben's bed, Teddy's head on Ben's shoulder. Ben had an absurdly long arm wrapped around Teddy's thighs and he was talking into the mess of Teddy's hair, voice soft and soothing and a little slurred. 

"I want a puppy," he said that night, scritching his fingernails over Teddy's leg. "Or two." 

"What kind?" Teddy asked, sleepily. Ben's neck smelled good, like cologne and weed smoke and spilled sweet vodka. Teddy gave it a little lick. 

"Jack Russell, maybe, they're so cute," Ben said, lifting his hand from Teddy's legs and putting it around his shoulders, pulling him in closer. 

And then he leaned in and said very quietly, "We could have one together, maybe. You and me. You and me and a couple dogs, like. In a house somewhere." 

Teddy laughed sleepily, and Ben echoed it quickly, sounding tired and faintly disappointed. 

"Silly, I know," he said. "Think about it, though, eh? Some- somewhere people wouldn't bother us." 

Teddy had kissed him, slick and slow, instead of answering, and Ben had quieted down and pulled him close and licked into his mouth -

Teddy shakes himself, stares down at the nails in his hand. He keeps doing that - going somewhere else for a bit, in his head. Drifting. 

"Teddy?" someone calls down the stairs, and he lifts his head. There are footsteps, getting closer. It sounds like Lana, and sure enough, she appears around the corner, hair swinging. 

"Teddy, Luke's wondering if you needed more-" 

"Careful!" Teddy shouts, because she's tripped on a loose nail and gone flying forward towards the workbench. He puts out a hand, he sees her face open in shock and he abruptly sees Ben's face, too, like it's laid over hers, his mouth curling up in a knowing, warm smile. It's so good to see him again. 

 _Hi_ , Ben mouths, and Lana screams, and the world turns to fire.

**AUGUST, 2012**

"It's good!" Liam shouts, giving a thumbs-up, and the director calls back, "Going to set off the smoke machine now, stand away from the places that are marked with tape, yeah?" 

"Yeah," Zayn says, taking a step to the left, and Harry looks over at Niall, who's humming to himself, playing air guitar.

"Move back, Nialler," he says, and something barrels into him- it's Zayn, tackling him to the ground just as a thick column of smoke shoots up with a hiss, exactly where Harry had been standing. 

"Idiot!" Zayn's yelling. The smoke machine is loud and thumping in his ears, and Harry feels his brain go open and terrified and suddenly he doesn't know where he is. 

"Sorry," he says, blindly, stumbling to his feet. 

"Jesus Christ, Haz, be careful," Zayn says, wide-eyed, and it doesn't feel right, Zayn calling him that. It doesn't feel right being here at all. 

Being alive. 

He can feel himself slipping back, dizzy and uncontrollable, and he takes a step backward and says, thick, "Oh, fuck." 

"Babe?" Zayn says, catching him right before he falls on his arse, bringing him down to the floor gently. Harry's vision is going, and he can't keep himself here, he can't make himself focus. Everything's soft-edged and spinny. 

"Shit, shit, Harry, you alright?" Zayn's saying into his face, loud and terrified. "Harry, fuck, look at me-" 

"No," Harry gasps out, curling into himself. He's shaking. "No-" 

"Fuck, what happened?" Louis yells, voice coming closer. 

"Think he's having a seizure or summat," Zayn says, his voice panicky. "Shit, call an ambulance - Harry?" 

"No," Harry says, focusing, white noise still rushing in his ears. "No, I need Nick. Please. Please ring Nick, I need him, please-" 

"Nick Grimshaw?" Louis snaps out from somewhere above him. "What the hell do you need him for? Zayn, call an ambulance." 

"No!" Harry screams. "Fucking call Nick! I need him!" 

There's a silence, except it's not really silent, because Harry can hear- other stuff. He can hear the old stuff, crackly and distant like the car radio when you drive under a bridge. A murmur in his ears. 

He can hear Zayn talking on the phone, behind him. "- asked for you," Harry hears him say. "We're - here, just - come as quick as you can, alright, we're rehearsing at the O2-" 

Niall and Louis are both next to him, Liam craned above, all their faces drawn with worry. 

"Did you have a seizure?" Louis says, and Harry shakes his head, drawing his knees up to his chest. He puts his face down and shuts his eyes. 

"I just need Nick," he says, firmly, but his voice trembles on the last word. He knows he sounds fucking insane. But he keeps feeling himself - split apart, fracture. Nick's the only one who can stop it. 

Nick's dead, though. Dead from bullet holes in his gut and in his chest, dead and bleeding and empty-eyed. Harry's fault. It's all Harry's fault. _Live for him_. And Harry tried, he tried-

"No," Harry mumbles to himself, tucking his face further into his knees.Zayn's rubbing his back, warm and slow, but Harry barely feels it. 

He's not sure how long it is - twenty minutes? Forty? - but eventually he hears a familiar voice say, "Where is he?" and then Nick's rushing up to him, dropping to his knees. 

"Hey, hey, what happened?" he says, voice trembling, putting his arms around Harry. They're sat on the fucking stage at the O2, and Harry still feels like they're somewhere else. Like Nick's a ghost. 

Harry can't say anything. He curls into Nick's touch, puts his face into Nick's warm, solid chest. He can feel the other boys standing over him. 

"Hey, love," Nick says, soft, scared. He pets Harry's back. "Shit, what happened, Harry? Can you tell me?" 

"The smoke machine went off, nearly took him out," Zayn says, sounding like he's chewing his fingernails. 

"Yeah?" Nick says, still low and soothing. "You're alright though, aren't you, Harry? Not burned, are you, you're alright." 

Harry lets out a gasp of a sob, thick and unexpected, and Nick hugs him tighter, his arms shaking. 

"Don't cry," he says, sounding terrified now. "Hey, Haz, don't do that, it's alright, you're alright-" 

And then he leans in close and says into Harry's ear, "Is this about - us? The other us?" 

Harry nods, as another sob makes its way out of his clenched-tight throat. 

"Shit," Nick breathes, rocking him. "Okay, we're alright- you're alright. Try to think about where you are, Harry, okay? You're at the O2, you're in London." 

"You're dead," Harry says, pulling back a little. His voice is low. "You're dead and I'm dead." 

Nick looks so sad. 

"I'm not, Haz," he says, cupping Harry's cheek. "I promise you we're not. We're fine."

"Did he say dead?" Louis snaps. "What are you on about?" 

"It's nothing, he's in shock," Nick says, looking up, and then, quieter so the others can't hear, "I'm right here, Harry, that's not me. I'm here." 

"It was a bomb," Harry whispers, remembering each part of it. He died slow, he's remembering now. From blood loss, shrapnel in each piece of his body, his skin blistering with burns. The _pain_. There was so much fucking blood, how does he even remember that? "That's how I-" 

"I know," Nick says, low in his throat, and Harry pulls back, staring at him. 

"Nick-" 

"I'm in this shit too," Nick says, looking angry at himself for admitting it. "Alright, love? We're in this together. I know what fucking happened." 

"I don't fucking _get it_ ," Harry says, voice coming out ragged like an overtired toddler. He's so tired, all a sudden. 

"Can you give us a bit of space?" Nick says, looking up. 

"Harry," Niall says, sounding unsure. 

"Please, sorry," Harry says, stupidly. "Just- just a minute." 

He hears them walk away, and Nick touches his face again, gently. 

"I, like, get it, yeah?" he says, close and quiet. "I know how - weird, and hard it is to get yourself out of it. Spent half a bloody hour yesterday morning convinced I was American. My accent was impeccable, Collette was terrified." 

Harry nods, scared, because that's been happening to him too. Only in little chunks, when he's tired, or distracted. 

"What are we gonna do?" he whispers. "How do we make it stop?" 

Nick bites his bottom lip. 

"No bloody idea," he says. "It can't go on forever, right? Now that we- now that we know what happened. All that shit you're always going on about, how we have to accept it, or- right? Oh _god_ , this is so mental." 

"I'm sorry," Harry says, sniffing in hard. He's not sure why, but he knows this is his fault. It's all been his fault, since the beginning. "I'm so sorry-"

"Hey, love, don't say you're sorry-" 

"Was my fault," Harry chokes out, as Nick puts his arms around him again. "When you - when you - it was my fault." 

"It wasn't," Nick says, fierce and quiet. "It was fucking shit luck, Harry. It was - a fucking freak accident, it was me being in the wrong place at the wrong time-" 

"Because of me," Harry snaps, wiping a hand over his eyes. 

"- yeah, maybe. But it was _us_ , okay? I was - I was in love with you," Nick says, and his eyes go bright and strange, blinking at Harry. 

Harry sucks in a shaking breath. 

"I loved you," Nick says, softly. "And it wasn't fair, the way it happened. It wasn't supposed to be that way, that's why we're- here." 

The words sink in deep, and it's both comforting and terrifying, because the idea of them not being _them_ \- of Nick finally fucking accepting that it's not the first time around - is so big it makes Harry's head spin. 

"We're here," Nick repeats, feeling it too, his eyes dark. "Fuck, kid, you're a fucking _popstar_ , and I'm rich, and people know I like boys and they - they don't think I'm sick. And we're fucking. I'm fucking you." 

He grins, a brief flash of teeth. 

"I don't even know who the hell I am," he says, Harry watching him warily. "I honestly don't. I think I'm - both. Who fucking cares. I'm - I'm happy." 

"We're happy," Harry says, swallowing a lump in his throat. 

Nick swallows too. Nods. 

"I don't know how to be both," Harry says, still shaky. 

"Like I've got a fucking clue," Nick mutters. 

"This can't keep happening," Harry says, scrubbing at his face with one hand. "I can't fucking - go back, all the time, I have to be focused." 

"I know, Haz." Nick cups his jaw. "I can't exactly go all old-school American on the radio, either. I think- this is stupid, maybe, but I think to, to make it not be awful, we just have to. We have to _know_ that it's going to happen, and that it's alright, and it'll pass." 

He shrugs, one thumb stroking over Harry's cheekbone. 

"Sounds a bit simple," he says softly. "But I think once I stop fighting it, I can just- coexist with it." 

He laughs. "That's very zen, innit? I'm proper New Agey." 

Harry's half-listening, and then he has to close his eyes against a wave of something that feels like memories, pouring into him, too fast to process. He hunches his shoulders, and Nick holds him more tightly. 

"Alright?" he asks quietly. 

"Just - a lot," Harry manages to say, leaning into Nick. And then, after a minute of quiet, "I'm still so fucking sorry for what I did." 

"Then be sorry," Nick murmurs. "If that's what you need. But hey, kid, we're here now. That was before." 

"Hey," Harry hears, quiet and cautious, and he jerks his head up to see Zayn standing above them, scratching awkwardly at his stubbly jaw. 

"Everything good?" 

"Yeah, it's alright," Nick says, and Harry turns his face to Nick's and kisses his mouth, hard and fierce. 

He's never done that in front of the boys before. 

When he pulls back, he sees Zayn looking away uncomfortably.

Nick's all goggle-eyed, lips parted and face gone pink, and Harry suddenly, fiercely loves him. God. They made it. Harry fucked up, before, and Nick died, in the worst way, Nick died right in front of him. Harry went too. That _happened_. 

But now they're here. For whatever reason, they're here. 

"We made it," he says to Nick, low, ignoring Zayn still standing there.

"Harry," Nick says, voice careful, glancing back at Zayn. "How bout you get up, get back to rehearsing?" 

"Listen to me," Harry says, tugging at his shirt. He can hear the rest of the lads coming their way, Louis' distinctive voice yelling something, footsteps. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm gonna be better this time." 

Nick smirks. "Sure you will." 

"I _am_. I promise." 

"No more fucking around with West Coast bimbos in floral shorts?" Nick says, his eyes lit up. 

"That was _one time_ ," Harry says, laughing. 

"It was not," Nick says, offended. "It absolutely was not one time. You cheated on me for about half your sophomore year."

"Didn't," Harry lies, and Nick looks up at Zayn again. 

Harry does too. 

"I'll explain later," he says, and Zayn just nods, eyebrows furrowed, and turns away.  

Harry puts his face against Nick's chest, feels Nick kiss the top of his head. He's got no idea how he'll explain it to Zayn. What _it_ is, really. But sod it. They made it this far, didn't they? 

**AUGUST, 2012**

Nick wakes up early-early, even though it’s a Saturday. Prepping for the show, maybe. His body already trying to adjust. He lies there for a while, trying to sleep, but Puppy spots him and pads over to the bed, hops up, snuggles between them and noses at Nick’s cheek. 

“Hi,” Nick whispers to her. Harry’s deep asleep, breath slow and even, so Nick’s not worried about waking him. 

Puppy whines softly, lifts one leg hopefully for a tummy scratch. Nick obliges her, and then rolls out of bed. 

“C’mon, love, let’s go for a wee.” 

Puppy hops off the bed, follows Nick to the back door and dashes outside. 

It’s a nice morning. Still dark - at a quarter past five - but already warm and not too damp. Nick leans against the door and closes his eyes. 

 _Do you think_ , Harry had said last night, when they were all fucked out, curled in bed, Nick rubbing a hand over the shifting muscles of Harry’s stomach as Harry lay in front of him. _Do you think when we die they’ll keep going? Find someone else_? 

Nick lifts his glasses to rub at his eyes, lets out a long breath. He didn’t know what to say then and he doesn’t know now. He’s tired, sometimes, of all the questions. Of feeling mental. Scattered. 

Ben was tired too. Tired all the time, and not happy, and scared. He spent his whole life falling in love with people who didn’t love him back, wanting things he couldn’t have. His life was short and sad and all the happiness in it was jagged and stolen. 

Nick opens his eyes, watches as Puppy noses around in the dirt. His mind drifts to Harry, dwells on him, helplessly. Harry’ll leave again, soon. Nick wonders, sometimes, about the fire that burned in Teddy, all that anger. If it’s gone out, in Harry, or if it’s still there, smoldering. Waiting. If the screaming from the crowds helps keep Harry calm, or if it makes him burn. 

Christ. He’s mental. He’s fucking mental and Harry is too, and they’re insane together. Nick shuts his eyes hard and clenches his jaw and startles at the touch on his leg, Puppy’s wet nose on his calf. He stoops down to pet her, crouching, bare feet curling on the floor. 

“Hi,” he whispers, cos no one else is awake to hear him talk to his dog. “Hi, Puppy.” 

She snuffles at his palms, looking for a treat, and he puts his arms around her neck, squeezes hard and inhales her scent, fresh air and wet dirt. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbles to Puppy. “I’m not mental. Am I?” 

She licks his cheek with her warm wet tongue. 

“My name is Nick,” Nick says, very calmly. “Nicholas Peter Grimshaw. I’m twenty-nine and I’m from Oldham and I work at the BBC in London.” 

It feels right, feels good in his mouth. All he gets from Puppy is another cheek-lick. 

He pulls her closer, until she wriggles in his grasp, whines. He doesn't let go.

“I’m Benjamin Ezekiel Roberts, and I’m twenty-six, and I’m from Eddyville, Iowa,” he whispers, against her soft ear. “Is that true?”

Puppy whines again, and breaks free, trots down the hall with her nails clicking on the polished wood. 

Nick stands up, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He carefully closes the conservatory door, turns back inside. He gets Puppy her breakfast, puts the kettle on for tea, takes out the milk. A familiar routine. Ben craves that, familiarity. Rituals. It settles him. Ben likes to have things and keep things, surround himself with objects that don’t move. Permanence. He didn't get it before and he wants it now.

Nick shakes himself, pours two mugs of tea and takes them into the bedroom. Harry’s stretching lazily, half-awake, his mouth open in a yawn and his dark hair spread against Nick’s pillow. 

“Morning,” Nick says.

“Morning,” Harry murmurs back, and he drags himself up in bed, crossing his legs. He takes the tea out of Nick’s hand and takes a sip. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah,” Nick says, sitting at the edge of the bed. 

They don’t speak for a while. What the hell do they have left to say to each other, anyway?

“D’you know,” Harry says sleepily, into the heavy silence. “Had this dream.” 

Nick tenses up, automatically. He looks down at his knees. 

“I was at the O2,” Harry says, tucking his hair behind his ears. “And there was a riot. People screaming, throwing - throwing bottles with fire in them.” 

“Bottles with fire?” 

“Y’know. Like. Bottles, with the gasoline, and the fire coming out-” Harry gestures demonstratively.

“Molotov cocktails.” 

“Yesss.” Harry smiles. “Couldn’t think of it.” 

Nick huffs a laugh. 

“Anyway. We were there, you and me. You were in the crowd and I was on stage, I was singing. I could see your face. There was blood on your face and you were screaming at me.” 

Nick shivers, tries to hide it by taking a gulp of tea. “Sounds pleasant.” 

“We were singing, me and - and the others, and these men came out from behind us with guns and started shooting into the crowd until everyone got really quiet. And I kept looking for you but I couldn’t, um, see your face anymore.” 

His voice goes small. He ducks his head. 

“Weird, innit?” 

“Was that all?” 

“Yeah. Woke up.” 

“So I was rioting at a One Direction concert. That’s well hard.” 

Harry lets out a little laugh. 

“What d’you think it means?” 

“Nothing at all,” Nick says lightly. “I think it means it’s time to stop analyzing your stupid dreams.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Nick.” 

“I’m serious,” Nick says, sipping his tea and setting it down. He takes Harry’s mug out of his hand, puts it next to his on the bedside table. Harry peers at him, bemused, but he goes easily enough when Nick puts hands on his shoulders, guides him gently down to the bed. 

He lies next to Harry, cautiously reaches out and puts a hand over Harry’s chest. Harry’s skin is bare and warm and there’s dark ink under Nick’s palm. 

“Nick,” Harry says, sounding bemused. Nick hums in response, and puts his cheek where his hand was, right over Harry’s heart. 

Harry lets out a breath that Nick can feel, reaches to stroke his hair. 

Nick’s quiet for a long minute. He can hear the thump of Harry’s heartbeat.

“I’m scared,” he says. His voice comes out thick. 

Harry’s hand pauses on Nick’s head, and then keeps moving. 

“Me too.” 

Nick closes his eyes. “You’re gonna leave me.” 

“Not forever.” 

“Yes you will. That’s how this goes.” 

“No it’s not, Nick.” 

Nick lets out a choked breath. “I can’t do it again. I can’t wait for the next fucking go-around, I - I can’t fucking go through it again, alright?” 

“I know,” Harry mumbles. 

“It’s like, I know that we can’t,” Nick says, trying to hold his voice steady. “I know it’s such a stupid idea, you and- and me, with the way things are, but I’m so sick of waiting.” 

Harry draws in a shuddery breath. Nick can feel his chest move. 

“Listen,” he says, low. “This is a fucking, like, drop in the ocean. This part. Think how long we’ve waited. So fucking long. I’m going on tour for eight _months_. The band's another - three years, at most. Four, maybe. It’s - nothing.” 

“It doesn’t feel like nothing.”

“I know. But we can - we can wait. The point is that we _get_ it, you know? I don’t think we got it last time. We bloody figured it out, and they can’t fuck with us now that we’ve figured it out.” 

Nick chokes out a laugh. _They_. Christ, if someone could hear them right now. Nick’s losing his goddamn mind. 

Harry tugs at Nick’s earlobe, gently, then curls his hand around Nick’s neck. Nick goes very still. He wants to melt down to nothing, sink into Harry’s skin. 

“I’m in love with you,” Harry says. His voice is steady. “You know that.” 

Nick’s eyes close. The last time Harry said that was - the last day.

“Nick,” Harry says, choked. “You know that, right? Always always and always.” 

He tightens his arm around Nick’s shoulder, pulls him in closer, and Nick reaches up and puts his hand over Harry’s face. Breath puffs hot against his palm, and he can feel Harry’s lips, his soft cheek, his big nose. He tweaks it and Harry laughs. 

“Love you too,” he says, muffled into Harry’s chest. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“So we’ll wait.” 

Nick gusts out a breath. “We’ll wait.” 

Harry laughs again, a manic note in it. “Fuck, this is weird.” 

“Yeah,” Nick says, voice breaking. He rolls off Harry’s chest, flops onto his back. His face is damp with sweat from being pressed skin-to-skin. 

“It’s sort of incredible,” Harry says, dreamily. “The whole idea of it. Destiny and shit. Inevitability. Y’know, if you think about it, it’s - it’s incredible.” 

Nick chews his lip, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Yeah, well. I’d rather be normal.” 

Harry laughs. There’s a note of Teddy in it, smug and knowing, and he reaches out to lace their fingers together on the bed between them. He squeezes Nick's hand, and Nick goes weak. 

He knows that's it for him. This is it for him. For better or for worse.

“No, you wouldn’t," Harry murmurs. 

God. Nick knows. He knows. 

 

 


	2. coda

**NOVEMBER, 2015**

Harry unlocks the door, drops his bag on the rug with a heavy thump that feels final. 

There's a skitter of claws on the polished wood, and Pig roundsthe corner with a bark. Harry drops into a crouch to greet her. 

"Hi, Pig dog," he murmurs. "Hi, love, hi, hi-" 

"Hi," he hears, and he looks up. 

Nick's standing in the doorway, looking at him, and Harry nearly staggers backward under a thick rush of pleasure. It's always like this, when they see each other. Deeper this time, because it's - it's the last. The last time they'll come together after months of being apart. 

Harry nods, throat dried up, and staggers to his feet. 

Nick doesn't move, so Harry goes to him. 

Nick folds him into his arms, and Harry rests his hands on Nick's back, solid skin and muscle and bone under his fingers. He's lost weight, narrower and thinner in Harry's arms. He smells good. 

"Hi," Nick says again, voice rough. He coughs. 

Harry nudges his mouth against Nick's stubble-rough chin, and then kisses him. Nick sighs, mouth giving way like an overripe peach.

He's home. That's it - five years. No one knows yet, that they've finished their last show, but Harry thinks people could feel it. Felt fitting, almost, to finish it so close to home. Back where they started. 

Nick pulls back, big hands cupping Harry's face, his palms warm and dry.

"Is it-" he says unsteadily. 

Harry nods, taking in the sight of him. The new lines around his eyes, his familiar mouth, kissed-full and slick. 

"You're - here, here for good, then?" Nick asks, and his voice breaks, hopeful. 

"Yeah," Harry says rustily. "For good." 

The smile starts at the corner of Nick's mouth, spreads out and up until his eyes fall into happy slits. Harry's heart gives a low clench of satisfaction, and he has to kiss him. 

"You're not leaving the country," Nick says, when they break apart. He's breathing hard. "Ever again. You're not leaving my bloody _bed_ ever again." 

"I'm going to LA next week," Harry says, laughing. His lips are tingling. "For the interview." 

Nick fists a hand in Harry's hair, tugs him back until his throat is exposed, and Harry's breath catches. He shivers, arches his back when Nick draws his fingertips lightly over the tendons in Harry's throat. 

"You'll come back," Nick says, a thumb on Harry's pulse. 

"Always," Harry murmurs, leaning in to kiss him again. Christ, doesn't Nick get it yet? There's no going away, there's no leaving each other. It doesn't work like that.

"Always," Nick repeats, heavy-lidded with pleasure, the word solid in his mouth. 

Harry nods, pressing his face to Nick's, his hands to Nick's flushed cheeks. He squeezes hard, until he can feel the bones shift under Nick's skin. "Always always and always." 

 


End file.
